Chapter 5 Talia
Talia
The quiet. It's the first thing I notice. The second is the weight. A heavy arm is draped over my waist, and a solid, muscular leg is tangled with mine. My cheek is pillowed on a chest that is definitely not my own, rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
I'm... safe. The thought is so foreign I almost laugh. I'm in Anton Ismailov's bed, sore in places I didn't know I had, and the first emotion I identify is safety.
The storm is still a muffled howl outside, but in here, there is only the crackle of the fire and the sound of his breathing. My body is... a mess. A wonderful, aching, exhausted mess.
"Anton." My voice is a rough, sleepy whisper.
He stirs instantly, his arm tightening. "I'm here, malen'kaya." He shifts, pulling the heavy duvet up over my shoulder, tucking me in.
I sigh, a long, trembling sound. The reality of it all is... a lot. "I'm... sticky."
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, and I feel it against my cheek. "We are. I'll run a bath soon."
"No." The word is out before I can stop it. I snuggle closer, pressing my cheek against his hard-muscled chest. "Not yet. I like this."
I just admitted that. I just told a man I was terrified of twelve hours ago that I like being held by him. That should scare me, but I'm too tired. Too... sated.
We lie in silence. The firelight dances over us.
Glazing the hard planes of his chest, the dusting of dark hair, and bronzing the rich brown of my skin draped over his paler, tattooed arm.
We're so different—age, experience, temperament.
So, why do I feel uniquely connected to him? Entangled in the best possible way.
"You're quiet," he murmurs, his finger tracing my spine.
"I'm processing. Thinking, this is a nice one, Santa." When he doesn't laugh, I tilt my head back, finding his face in the dim light. "You... you hate Christmas, don't you?"
He's so still, I think he won't answer. Then, his voice, flat. "Da. I do."
"Why." I push, braver now. Fearless in his arms. Unafraid of everything, including him.
Anton's quiet for a long time. "I was thirteen," he says flatly. "It was two days before Christmas. My parents were killed."
My breath hitches. "Oh."
"My father's business." He doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask.
The words fill the space, ballooning out and pressing down, while I freeze.
I don't dare interrupt a memory he's willing to share.
"I was... passed around. An uncle here, a cousin there.
They have a word for it. Priemak. The foster child who is not quite family. "
My heart... aches. "You were an orphan, too," I whisper.
"Not like you." He shakes his head, his hand tightening on my hip.
"I had family. They love me, and I love them.
But I did not... belong. Not really. I was a reminder of a failure, of a debt.
At seventeen, I stopped waiting for someone to take care of me.
I went into the business. I began to take care of myself. And I have, ever since."
I listen to his story, and the chasm between us—the billionaire boss and the temp—doesn't seem so wide.
He's just... like me. But with money. And power.
And... family who loved him. I'm quiet for a moment, processing his version of my life.
Then, my hand slides up from his chest to his jaw, my thumb brushing the rough stubble.
"No one should be alone," I whisper. It's the truest thing I know. "Not even a bastard like you."
He turns his head, his lips pressing a hot, rough kiss into my palm. "You are not alone tonight, Talia."
"Neither are you."
The words hang there, a simple, spoken fact. And I realize, with a shock that has nothing to do with sex, that it's true.
He retrieves the tray of food and brings it to the bed.
We eat with our fingers, sharing cheese and apple slices, drinking wine.
I feel... decadent. I laugh when he spills a drop of wine on the sheets.
The simple delight of the moment surprises me.
It's so not what I expected from a night in his bed.
When he takes me again, it's... different.
Not the desperate, painful claiming of the first time, when he'd stretched me open with his thick cock, pushing past my virginity in one relentless thrust that left me gasping and tears stinging my eyes.
This is... a discovery. He's slow. Deliberate.
He's teaching me, his older, guiding my inexperienced body like I'm a canvas he's painting with pleasure.
He rolls me onto my back, his massive frame hovering over mine.
The age gap between us—the Bratva boss in his forties and me, barely out of my twenties—means nothing as we ignite.
His mouth claims mine, tongue pushing deep, while his fingers trail down my body, pinching my nipples until they're hard peaks that ache for more.
"Touch yourself for me, malen'kaya," he growls against my lips, his voice thick with that Russian accent that makes me tremble. "Show me how you make yourself wet."
I've never done this in front of anyone, but his command decimates my will. My hand slips between my thighs, fingers circling my clit, slick with our earlier mess. He watches, eyes dark and hungry, his cock hardening against my hip—long, veined, and still glistening from before.
"Good girl," he murmurs, replacing my hand with his own, his thick fingers plunging into my sore, swollen pussy, curling to hit that spot inside that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
I arch off the bed, moaning, my body still tender from losing my virginity, but the ache only heightens the pleasure.
He flips me onto my hands and knees, then positions me like a prize.
I'm exposed, vulnerable, my ass in the air, my breasts swaying heavy and full.
His hands grip my hips, thumbs spreading me open, and his gaze burns into my most intimate places—the slick folds he'd claimed first, now dripping with anticipation.
"So fucking beautiful," he rasps. "You're mine now, Talia.
Every inch." He teases me with the head of his cock, rubbing it along my slit, coating himself in my wetness before pushing in slowly, inch by torturous inch.
It's deeper this way, filling me completely, stretching me around his girth until I whimper, my walls clenching from the mix of lingering soreness and building ecstasy.
He tangles one hand in my hair—hair that's a tangled mess from all the rolling around we've done tonight.
But I don't care. I don't give a damn when he pulls my head back to arch my spine.
Definitely, not thinking about my hair when his other hand reaches around to rub my clit in firm circles.
He thrusts harder now, his hips slamming against my ass with rhythmic slaps that crack in the room, his balls heavy and swinging against me.
"Take it, malen'kaya," he whispers filthily in my ear, his voice rough and commanding.
"Feel how deep I am? I'm going to fuck you until you're begging for my cum.
" His words undo me, and I push back against him, my ass begging as it bumps back to meet every thrust. I'm not just learning his rhythm; my body is demanding the raw power of it.
Sweat slicks our skin as we strain in jerky beats.
When I'm trembling on the edge, he pulls out without warning, flipping me onto my back again. "Not yet," he says with a wicked grin, lowering his mouth to my core.
Oh my loving God. What is he doing? My mind is too far gone to process.
I'm at the edge, barely holding on to my sanity.
His tongue laps at me greedily, sucking on my clit while two fingers pump inside, hitting that sweet spot over and over.
I shatter, screaming his name as waves of orgasm crash through me, forcing me over that cliff.
While my thighs clamp around his head, and my hands fist the sheets.
Recovery time? What's that? Something Anton's never heard of and something he's not giving me. Instead, he surges up, thrusting back into me in one powerful stroke, his cock throbbing as he drives toward his own end. I can't fault him. "Get it," I urge him. "Take what you need."
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, pounding deeper, his hips grinding against mine.
I wrap my legs around him, nails digging into the cords of muscles on his back.
I shift, lifting my ass high and clamping down.
He roars. Then comes, spilling hot and thick inside me, pulse after pulse, marking me as his in the most primal way.
When I finally fall into a real, deep sleep, I'm boneless, sated, and curled against him like I was born to be there. I wake to a bright, blinding silence. The storm is over. The world is covered in a thick, pristine blanket of white. And the power is back on.
It's Christmas Day.
My body is... wonderfully sore. I'm alone in the massive bed. I sit up, clutching the comforter. "Anton."
He's at the window, just a dark silhouette against the impossible, bright white. He turns. He's just in his sweats, his chest bare, his hair a mess. He's the most beautiful, dangerous man I've ever seen.
"Merry Christmas, malen'kaya," he says.
I smile. A slow, shy smile just for him. "Merry Christmas."
He walks to me, holding out his hand. "Come here. I want to show you something."
His grip is warm and solid. He leads me to the massive, floor-to-ceiling window. The sun burns through the clouds, setting the snow-covered skyline on fire.
"Look." He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His stubble scratches my skin. "It's yours."
"What is?"
"The sleeping city is waiting for you, Talia. Anything you want. Any store you want to go into. Any restaurant. I'll have them open it. You only have to say the word… "
I'm quiet for a moment, my head leaned back against his solid chest. He's serious. My mouth gapes. No one's ever offered me so much for the holidays. "You'd do that, wouldn't you?"