Chapter Twenty-Three - Janice #2
He starts to move, and this time there’s no urgency. Just long, slow thrusts that let me feel every inch of him. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks, and the tenderness of it undoes me more than the pleasure.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
I meet his eyes, gray and intense and completely focused on me. He picks up the pace slightly, angling his hips to hit deeper, and I’m building again impossibly fast.
“I don’t understand this,” I gasp. “How you can be this and that and—”
“I know.” He kisses me, deep and thorough. “I don’t understand it either.”
His rhythm changes, thrusts becoming deeper. Each stroke drags against nerves that are already over-sensitized, pleasure bordering on too much. I cling to his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back that will mark him tomorrow.
“Slower,” I breathe. “I want, fuck, I need—”
“Tell me.” His hand slides under my knee, lifting my leg higher, opening me wider for him. The new angle makes me cry out. “Tell me what you need.”
“Everything. All of you.” The words tumble out without filter. “I need to feel you everywhere.”
He groans, low and rough, and pulls out completely. Before I can protest, he’s flipping me onto my stomach, hands gripping my hips, lifting me to my knees. The position leaves me exposed, vulnerable, and when he slides back in from behind, the depth steals my breath.
“Like this?” His voice is rough against my ear, body covering mine, one arm wrapped around my waist to hold me steady. “Is this what you need?”
“Yes! God, yes.”
He sets a rhythm that’s almost punishing, each thrust driving deeper than before. His free hand slides up my body, cupping my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers. The sensation shoots straight to where we’re joined, making me clench around him.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs. “So tight. So perfect.” His hand moves from my breast to my throat, fingers resting lightly against my pulse. Not squeezing, just holding. “Mine.”
The possessiveness should bother me. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly, makes me push back against him harder.
His grip on my hip tightens, control slipping. I can feel it in how his breathing roughens, how his movements lose their careful precision. He’s close, holding back for my sake.
“I need—” I can’t finish the sentence, pleasure building too fast.
“I know.” His hand slides from my throat down my body, finding my clit. “Come for me, Janice. Let me feel it.”
The combination of his cock driving into me and his fingers circling is devastating. I shatter with a cry that’s half his name, half incoherent sound, clenching around him so hard he swears in Russian.
“Again,” he commands, not slowing his pace. “You can give me another.”
“I can’t; it’s too much.”
“You can.” His fingers work my clit with ruthless precision, not letting me come down from the first orgasm. “Your body knows what it needs. Trust it.”
The pleasure is almost painful, too intense, but he’s relentless. He shifts the angle slightly, finding a spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes. I’m climbing again impossibly fast, every nerve ending screaming.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “So beautiful like this. Completely mine.”
When the third orgasm hits, it’s the strongest. Longer. I’m drowning in sensation, trembling uncontrollably, and Dimitri finally loses his iron control. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, and he buries himself deep with a groan that sounds like surrender.
I feel him pulse inside me, heat flooding, marking me from the inside out. His arm around my waist is the only thing keeping me upright, his body shaking against mine.
We collapse together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and racing hearts. He pulls out carefully, and I wince at the sensitivity. When he tries to move away, I catch his wrist.
“Stay,” I whisper. “Just for a minute.”
He settles beside me instead, gathering me against his chest. His hand strokes lazy patterns down my spine, touch gentle now where it was demanding moments ago.
“You’re quiet,” he observes.
“Processing.”
“Regrets?”
I lift my head to look at him. His hair is disheveled, eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them, and there’s a vulnerability in the question that makes my chest ache.
“No regrets. Just… ” I search for words. “Scared of how good that was. How much I needed it.”
“Why does that scare you?”
“Needing you gives you power over me. And I swore I’d never give anyone that again.”
His thumb traces my lower lip. “What changed?”
“You did. This did.” I gesture between us. “Somewhere along the way, the cage started feeling like safety. That terrifies me more than anything you’ve actually done.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he’s trying to memorize it. “I don’t know how to be anything other than what I am. I can’t promise I won’t hurt you again. Can’t promise the cage won’t feel suffocating when reality sets in.”
“I know.”
“I can promise I’ll try. To give you more than just control and possession. To remember you’re not just mine to protect; you’re yours first.”
The admission costs him. I can see it in the tension around his eyes, the careful way he’s holding himself. Dimitri Rudenko doesn’t make promises lightly. Doesn’t offer compromises or admit limitations.
“That’s more than I expected,” I say honestly.
“It’s less than you deserve.”
He pulls me closer, and I let him. Let myself have this moment of perfect understanding before tomorrow forces choices neither of us is ready for. His heartbeat is steady under my palm, his warmth surrounding me, and for now—just for now—it’s enough.
“You’re the most complicated person I’ve ever met,” I murmur against his chest.
“I’m simple. I want control and you. Everything else is noise.”
“That’s not simple at all.”
“Isn’t it?” He tilts my face up, studying me with those gray eyes that see too much. “You’re the variable I can’t solve for. The one thing I can’t predict or control or protect adequately. You terrify me more than anything I’ve faced.”
The admission hangs between us, raw and honest.
“I’m just a woman,” I say.
“You’re everything.” He says it simply, like stating fact. “That’s the problem.”
I don’t have a response. Can’t form words around the weight of what he just gave me—vulnerability wrapped in certainty, fear tangled with possession.
Understanding him might be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.
Now I see the pattern. See the twelve-year-old boy who couldn’t save his mother, who learned that control is the only defense against loss. See the man who cages me not out of cruelty but terror that he’ll fail again.
See why leaving him would destroy something that’s already been broken too many times.
“Friday night,” he says quietly. “I have a meeting with the Volkovs. I’ll be gone for several hours.”
My heart stops. The window the phone promised. The opportunity to take the drive.
“Okay,” I manage.
“Felix will be here. Security will be doubled.” His hand strokes down my spine. “You’ll be safe.”
Safe. The word tastes like ash.
He thinks he’s protecting me. Doesn’t know he’s giving me the rope to hang us both.
“Dimitri?”
“Yes?”
“If I ever hurt you…” I stop, throat tight. “If I made a mistake that damaged something between us, would you forgive me?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “That depends on the mistake.”
“What if it was big?”
“Janice.” He tilts my face up, forcing eye contact. “Whatever you’re planning, whatever you’re afraid of—talk to me. Now. Before it’s too late.”
The moment stretches. This is my chance. Confess about the phone, the contact, the plan to steal his files. Throw myself on his mercy and hope understanding wins over fury.
“I’m not planning anything,” I whisper. “I’m just scared.”
“Of what?”
Of losing this. Of choosing wrong. Of the moment tomorrow when I have to decide who I am.
“Of how much I care,” I say instead. “It’s easier when I hate you.”
His expression softens fractionally. “I know.”
He pulls me closer, and I let him. Let myself have this moment of safety before tomorrow destroys it. Let myself pretend that understanding is the same as absolution.
Misha returns eventually, jumping onto the bed with her characteristic limp. She settles between us with offended dignity, as if we’ve personally inconvenienced her with our absence.
“She’s judging us,” I observe.
“She’s jealous. I was supposed to feed her an hour ago.”
“You should feed her.”
“Felix will have handled it. He has keys.” Dimitri strokes the kitten’s head, and she purrs despite her attitude. “She’s spoiled.”
“You spoil her.”
“I spoil everything I care about.” His eyes find mine. “It’s a weakness.”
We lie there in comfortable silence, Misha between us, the city glittering past curtains we forgot to close. This is domesticity I never expected—the killer and the woman he caged, finding peace in a moment stolen from violence.
Tomorrow comes anyway.