Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Ivan
I saw her when Dmitri was droning on behind me about shipping costs. I didn't even recognize her at first.
Across the street, at the entrance of the alley, a lean middle-aged man was slamming the girl against the wall. Her head cracked against the brick—I could hear it from half a block away. She didn't make a sound. Like she was used to it.
Dmitri kept talking, but I couldn't hear him anymore, because the girl turned her face and I saw her hair—honey-gold, glowing in the sunlight like a streak of light that didn't belong there.
It was her. Anna Bennett.
My temples pounded. Rage shot up my spine and exploded in my skull.
I caught the man's wrist before his strike could land. I didn't bother arguing with him. With just a little force, I heard him howl in pain.
"Who the fuck are you? She's my daughter. I'll discipline her however I want!"
So this was her bastard father.
I glanced at Anna's pale face. Blood at the corner of her mouth. Breathing shallow with fear. Red marks on her wrists where he'd dragged her.
The fire in my chest was about to detonate.
Poor kitten. Left alone for five minutes and look what happened to her.
I twisted his arm. It popped out of the socket.
"Ah—"
He collapsed like a sack of garbage, writhing on the ground.
I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over Anna's shoulders.
She looked bad. Trembling all over. Could barely lift her head to look at me.
"Hey, Anna."
I said her name.
Her shoulders flinched. Slowly, she raised her eyes to mine. Red-rimmed. Voice stuttering. "Mr. Volkov."
Oh, God. A woman this sweet should be worshipped, not thrown into an alley and beaten by her own father.
I touched the dried blood at the corner of her mouth. She flinched but didn't pull away. Something stabbed through my chest. It hurt.
That idiot. What kind of father was he?
"Want revenge?" I asked her.
I picked up a wooden plank lying nearby and held it out to her. "Use this."
Anna looked dazed. She stared at the plank, eyes widening, then stepped back until she hit the cold wall.
She'd been hurt too badly. She didn't even have the courage to get close to her own hatred.
That was fine. I could help her. I swung the plank down hard onto her father's head.
He screamed louder.
"He won't hurt you again."
Anna's eyes welled up. "Sir, can you take me away from here?"
Her lashes were wet, like butterfly wings soaked in rain. Fragile enough to make my chest tighten.
I reached out and pulled my jacket tighter around her. "Come with me."
I didn't want to touch her. But her legs were giving out, so I wrapped an arm around her waist. She was so light. Like she'd blow away in the wind.
Dmitri was leaning against the car door. When he saw me walking back with her, he whistled. "Looks like the man's finally got some life in him."
I shot him a look. He shut up and pulled the door open.
Anna curled into the back seat, pressing herself into the corner. Head down.
She looked obedient. And pitiful.
I told Dmitri to take a cab back to the hotel. He shrugged, raised an eyebrow, tossed me the keys, and walked off.
I slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. The car was dead silent except for the hum of the motor. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Anna's shoulders were rigid. Her fingers clawed at the leather seat.
"That's leather," I said. "Not a scratching post."
She froze.
In those two seconds of silence, I saw her face turn bright red in the mirror.
"I've never had a cat."
She sounded defensive. But also like she was explaining herself.
I gripped the steering wheel. My mouth twitched.
"I can tell."
Cute little kitten.
I brought her back to my place. I didn't use this Vegas apartment often, but the living room window faced the city lights. The floor-to-ceiling glass looked out over the whole glowing sprawl.
She stood in the middle of the room, staring out at the lights, like a small animal that had wandered into a strange den.
"Sit down," I said.
She didn't move.
I grabbed her wrist and pushed her onto the couch. I pulled out the first aid kit, crouched in front of her, and tore open an alcohol pad. When I dabbed her wound, she hissed, but quickly shut her mouth again.
She didn't like showing weakness. Even when she was trembling with pain, she just bit her lip and refused to make another sound.
I gripped her chin and pried her lips open with my fingers, brushing over the swollen flesh she'd bitten. Her face flushed instantly, pink spreading to the corners of her eyes. She turned her head away, unable to look at me.
This time, she finally cried out like I wanted.
"Anna, you don't have to be tough. At least not with me. You can say it hurts."
She didn't speak, but she stopped forcing herself to stay silent. I wrapped her wrist in gauze. The bone jutted out where her wrist was too thin, like I could snap it with one hand. Like a cub that hadn't grown up yet.
Damn it. That bastard. He'd hit her so hard.
The living room was dark except for the neon glow bleeding in through the windows, flickering over her hair. The air was so still I could hear her heartbeat. Something tugged lightly at the hem of my shirt, so soft, like she was afraid to disturb me.
"What is it?"
Her fingers climbed higher and clutched my tie.
I didn't know who moved first. Maybe me. Maybe her.
When I kissed her, her lips were sweet, like she'd just had wine. Soft as hell. She brushed timidly against the corner of my mouth, like a frightened animal desperate to please me so I wouldn't abandon her.
I should stop.
I tried to stop.
My brain told me this was taking advantage. She just wanted my protection. I shouldn't take her body.
But she was pressed against me. We could hear each other breathing.
And I remembered last night. How small she was under me. Her skin glowing. Her nipples like ripe strawberries, standing proud, trembling under my gaze.
Just thinking about it made me ache.
"Anna, stop."
But my arms pulled her tighter. She buried her face in my neck and gasped, wrapping her arms around me.
"Ivan, give it to me."
Her voice was soft, but it burned through every last shred of my control.
I didn't hesitate anymore.
I kissed down her jaw, careful to avoid the bruise on her cheek.
My lips moved slowly, deliberately, mapping the soft line of her face as if memorizing every curve.
The faint discoloration near her cheekbone was a quiet reminder of whatever she'd endured before tonight, and I treated the skin around it with almost reverent gentleness.
My tongue traced the cut on her lip—tasting the metallic edge of it, soothing the split with slow, careful strokes—then moved lower to her collarbone.
The delicate hollow there invited me. I sucked the thin skin, drawing it between my teeth just hard enough to leave a mark, then lower still to her breasts.
The jacket I'd draped over her earlier slipped open under my fingers.
I unbuttoned it completely and laid her back on the couch, the worn leather cool against her bare skin.
Her breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath.
I took her nipple into my mouth—biting, releasing, teasing—circling the tight peak with my tongue before closing my lips around it again.
The other breast received the same attention from my hand, thumb rolling, pinching lightly until both nipples stood stiff and flushed.
My hand slid down her body, tracing the warm plane of her stomach, the soft dip of her navel, the gentle flare of her hips, until I reached her entrance.
I didn't push in. Instead, I pressed against her clit, circling it with the pad of my finger, playing with the swollen bud until it grew even fuller under my touch and she was dripping.
Wetness slicked my fingertips. I watched her face as I worked her, saw the way her lashes fluttered and her lips parted.
Then I started stretching her with my fingers—one at first, sliding in slowly, feeling the tight heat of her, then a second, scissoring gently to open her.
Her back arched. She made a sound like a kitten mewling, high and soft and helpless. The sound went straight through me.
Anna reached out, her fingers scratching lightly at my chest. The faint sting of her nails triggered something feral in me. Heat pooled low in my gut. I added another finger, found the sensitive spot inside her that made her hips jerk, and teased it with deliberate pressure.
"Hey, kitten. Pets who scratch their owners get thrown out."
Anna's eyes went hazy for a moment, pupils blown wide. Then she whispered obediently, "Master, don't throw me away." The words were soft, almost trembling, but clear.
She stuck out her tongue and licked the scratch marks on my chest—slow, apologetic swipes that made my cock throb harder against the fabric still between us.
Then she hooked her arms around my neck and kissed her way up, mimicking what I'd done to her: soft open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, a careful drag of her tongue over my lower lip, until our mouths met and our tongues tangled together.
The kiss turned deep and messy almost at once.
My self-control shattered.
I pulled her into my lap in one smooth motion, my palm grinding into the soft flesh at her waist. The heat of her bare skin against mine was almost too much.
I pressed her hips down, guiding her onto me, inch by inch.
The tight, wet clasp of her body opening around the head of my cock made my breath catch.
Her thighs started trembling. She cried out—a sharp, broken sound that was equal parts pain and something else.
I kissed away her tears as they slipped free, soothing her with quiet murmurs against her cheek.
I knew it was her first time. The knowledge sat heavy and electric in my chest. I forced myself to hold still, to let her adjust, even though every nerve in my body screamed at me to move, to thrust, to bury myself completely.
My hands stayed firm on her waist, steadying her, giving her the control she needed.
Anna buried her face in my neck. The pain wasn't as bad as the emptiness inside her. She felt stretched, itchy, hollow—an unfamiliar ache that demanded more even as it stung. Trembling, she gripped my shoulders and started moving, grinding up and down in small, experimental rolls of her hips.
Like she'd found a new toy and was figuring out how to use it. Every movement drove me insane. The slow drag of her body along my length, the way she clenched instinctively when she rose, the soft, wet sounds of her taking me deeper—each one frayed what little restraint I had left.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. The next time she sank down, I gripped her waist tighter and thrust up hard, seating myself fully inside her.
Anna screamed. The sound cracked open in the quiet room.
I pressed my forehead against hers. We were so close I could feel her breath—warm, uneven, tasting of the salt of her tears.
"Kitten," I said, voice low and strained, "let me show you what this is really for."
At first, I was careful. I didn't want to hurt her.
I rolled my hips in long, measured strokes, watching her face for any sign of real distress, adjusting the angle so that every thrust brushed the place inside her that made her gasp.
But then she clenched around me—tight, deliberate—and begged me to go harder, the words tumbling out between broken breaths. "Please, Master, harder—"
I nearly lost it right there. The last thread of control snapped. I let go and took her, hard and deep, whispering praise in her ear the whole time. "That's it, good girl, taking me so well. Such a perfect little kitten."
My hands held her hips steady as I drove up into her, the couch creaking beneath us, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room. Her nails dug into my shoulders again, harder this time, and I welcomed the sting.
We both came shaking and drenched in sweat. Her body seized around me in rhythmic pulses that milked every last drop from me; my own release crashed through me in long, shuddering waves. For a moment the world narrowed to the place where we were joined and the sound of our ragged breathing.
I carried her to the bathroom afterward, her body limp and warm against my chest. She thought I was just cleaning her up.
Warm water ran over her skin as I washed her carefully between her thighs, gentling the swollen, sensitive flesh.
But while I was washing her, I got hard again—thick and insistent against her hip.
She looked shocked when she felt it, eyes widening.
Then she laughed, soft and a little breathless, and threw my own words back at me. "Mature men don't force weaker women to do things they don't want to do." She smiled up at me, the expression both shy and teasing. "Sir, maybe you should go do something mature now."
I couldn't help but laugh. The sound rumbled low in my chest. I didn't know why I'd said that in the first place—some half-formed attempt at looking good that had never stood a chance.
I pressed her against the frosted glass wall of the shower, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat of her skin, and said, "Kitten, this is a mature thing. Congratulations. You're an adult now."
Before she could argue, I thrust into her from behind.
One smooth, deep stroke that made her cry out again, her palms sliding against the wet glass for purchase.
I held her hips and fucked her slow at first, then harder, the water cascading over both of us, steam curling around our bodies.
Her moans bounced off the tile. I reached around to stroke her clit while I moved, determined to pull another orgasm from her even as my own built again.
That night stretched on. I took her against the glass, then back to the bed, then once more with her on her hands and knees, whispering filthy praise and soft endearments in equal measure.
The kitten was still being taken even after she passed out from exhaustion—body soft and pliant, breath even, yet I couldn't stop moving inside her for a long while longer. I really was a beast.
When I finally stilled, I gathered her close, cleaned her again with careful hands, and held her while she slept.
The marks I'd left on her skin looked like quiet claims in the low light.
I pressed a final kiss to the bruise on her cheek I'd been so careful to avoid earlier, and let the night settle around us.