Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Anna
I couldn't fool myself anymore.
Not now, at least.
My body was a hell of a lot more honest than my brain. Around him, my defenses crumbled like a sandcastle soaked by the tide—one touch and half of it collapsed.
I didn't even get the chance to resist. Or maybe I just never really tried. A willing surrender.
Ivan wasn't the type to ask permission. He never had been.
No buildup. No questions.
He pinned me to the bed, and my gaze crashed into his slate-blue eyes—his sharp nose cast a shadow beneath them, the deep sockets making those eyes look like frozen lakes.
His kiss came down on me with unyielding force, crushing my lips before sliding along my jaw and stopping at the side of my neck. He lingered there, kissing and biting.
The rough stubble scraped my skin, sparking tiny shivers. I flinched, clutching the fabric of his shirt at his back.
"Ivan, we can't do this."
"Why the hell not?"
His voice was low, the end of it dissolving into his breath. When his lips closed around my earlobe, my whole body jolted. My palm pressed against his back, fingers curling and uncurling, like lightning had split down my spine.
"So sensitive, huh?" He laughed softly, the calluses on his palm dragging along my waist. "No one else has touched you these past few years, have they?"
I didn't want to talk. Didn't want to admit it.
Felt like admitting defeat.
His smile deepened, the rumble in his chest traveling through our pressed skin like a big cat purring.
I turned my head to dodge him, but he caught my knee, holding it down as he looked at me. Those slate-blue eyes churned with something I couldn't read—like tempered ice.
"Look at me, Anna." His voice dropped, fingers tracing up my spine, pressing each vertebra until I went numb. "Remember who's touching you right now."
I was forced to tilt my head back. His kiss fell just as the neon lights from outside swept across the room, glancing off his jacket draped over the headboard.
My heart skipped.
I didn't want to admit it, but my body, my heart, had never forgotten this man.
He was like a rusted nail lodged between my bones for five years. I thought time had worn it smooth, but the second he touched me, the pain came roaring back.
His lips moved down, blazing a trail across my collarbone, between my breasts, lower still.
He kissed like he was mapping me, relearning every curve, every hollow.
His hands followed, rough palms skimming my ribs, my hips, spreading my thighs.
The scrape of his stubble left faint heat in its wake, a deliberate contrast to the soft press of his mouth.
Every place he touched seemed to wake under him, skin tightening, nerves sparking as if they had been waiting years for this exact path.
"Still so damn perfect," he muttered against my stomach.
The words vibrated through me. I could feel the shape of them against my skin, the low gravel of his voice sinking deeper than the kisses themselves.
My breath hitched. His mouth kept moving, lower, and when his tongue dragged along the inside of my thigh, I gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.
The strands were thicker than I remembered, or maybe my hands were simply greedier now, clutching as if I could keep him from disappearing again.
"Ivan."
He didn't answer. Just kept going, deliberate and relentless, until I couldn't think straight.
My back arched off the bed, and his hands gripped my hips, holding me in place.
The strength in those hands was familiar and new at the same time—calluses I had once traced in the dark, the same firm pressure that used to pin me open when we were younger and less careful.
He licked a slow stripe higher, then another, circling without giving me what I already needed.
The wet heat of his mouth left glistening paths that cooled in the air, making me shiver even as my core pulsed harder.
It felt like that first time all over again—overwhelming, inescapable.
The same helpless spiral, the same sense that the rest of the world had narrowed to the space between his shoulders and the mattress.
I could hear my own breathing, ragged and too loud.
I could smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with clean sweat and the deeper, warmer scent of him that no amount of time had erased from my memory.
His tongue finally found me, flat and slow, and a broken sound tore out of my throat before I could stop it.
He hummed against me in answer, the vibration traveling straight up my spine.
He worked me with the same focused intensity he used to bring to everything that mattered—slow circles, then firmer pressure, then the softest suction that made my thighs tremble against his ears.
One of his hands left my hip only long enough to slide two fingers through my wetness, testing, teasing, before pressing inside.
The stretch was perfect, familiar, and still enough to make my head tip back against the pillow.
He curled them just right, finding the spot that always undid me, while his mouth stayed relentless on my clit.
I was already climbing too fast, hips trying to rock against his face even though he held me down.
But just as he positioned himself, just as the heat of him pressed against me, my brain snapped back online.
"Wait." I pressed my hand against his chest. The solid plane of muscle under my palm was hotter than the rest of the room, rising and falling with controlled breaths that did not match the dark hunger in his eyes. "What about Victoria?"
He froze.
The entire room seemed to hold still with him. His cock rested heavy and thick against my entrance, the blunt head slick with both of us, but he did not push. His gaze locked on mine, something sharp and wounded flashing there before it hardened.
"You two got remarried, didn't you?"
His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with something dangerous. "We didn't remarry."
The denial was immediate, almost harsh. I could see the muscle jump along his cheek, the way his nostrils flared as he fought whatever storm was moving behind those eyes.
"But—"
"There is no Victoria," he growled, his hand gripping my thigh harder. The fingers dug in just shy of pain, possessive, claiming. "There's only you."
The words landed like a brand. I opened my mouth to question him, to figure out if he was lying, but he didn't give me the chance.
He pushed forward, slow and deep, and I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.
The stretch burned sweetly, my body remembering him even as it struggled to take every thick inch.
He did not stop until he was seated fully, hips flush to mine, the base of him pressed tight against me.
For a long moment neither of us moved. I could feel the throb of his pulse inside me, the way my walls fluttered and clenched around the sudden, overwhelming fullness.
"Christ, Anna." His voice broke, forehead dropping to mine. "You're so tight."
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. Every shallow inhale made me feel him more, the heavy weight of him stretching me open, the heat of his body blanketing mine.
Sweat already slicked the place where our chests met.
His breath ghosted across my lips, uneven, and I tasted the salt of my own skin still on his mouth when he finally kissed me.
He groaned, pulling back slightly before sliding in again. The drag was exquisite—slow enough that I felt every ridge, every inch of him leaving and returning. "You've been waiting for me, haven't you?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. But my body told him everything.
My legs wrapped higher around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
My hands slid from his shoulders to his nape, fingers threading into his hair again, holding on.
When he rolled his hips on the next thrust, grinding against the place that made stars burst behind my eyes, a broken whimper escaped me.
He moved carefully at first, like he was afraid I'd shatter.
Each stroke was measured, deep, the wet sound of our bodies meeting soft and rhythmic in the quiet room.
But when I rolled my hips against him, something snapped.
His control fractured, and he thrust harder, deeper.
The change was sudden and electric. The careful rhythm vanished.
His next thrust drove the air from my lungs.
The one after that made the headboard knock softly against the wall.
He braced one forearm beside my head, the other hand sliding under my lower back to tilt me higher, changing the angle until every stroke dragged perfectly over that swollen, desperate place inside me.
I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out too loud.
The bed creaked beneath us, and I prayed Alex couldn't hear—prayed the thin walls and the closed door were enough, that the sound of the shower running earlier had masked enough.
My nails scored down Ivan's back; I felt the faint catch of skin under them and could not make myself stop.
He growled low in his throat at the sting and answered by snapping his hips harder, the slap of skin on skin now sharp and unmistakable.
A knock on the door.
"Mom?"
I froze, eyes going wide. Ivan's hand clamped over my mouth, his body going still inside me.
The sudden silence was almost louder than the creaking bed had been.
I could feel him pulsing deep, could feel how close I had already been, the climax hovering just out of reach and now locked in place by pure panic.
His eyes met mine, dark and fierce, a silent command to stay quiet.
His palm was warm and slightly rough against my lips; I tasted the salt of my own skin on his skin.
"Mom, what are you guys doing?"