Chapter 11 Dmitri
DMITRI
Her mouth meets mine like it's an argument she intends to win, and for a moment I let her. I let her press anger into me, teeth sharp behind soft lips, her body taut like a bowstring. Then I close my hand around her wrist and answer back.
"You come to me with fire," I murmur against her mouth, low, rough. "And you expect me not to burn?"
She tries to pull back, but my other hand is already at her waist, drawing her closer. The note slips from her fingers and falls between us like a witness. Her breath is hot, sharp with defiance.
"You don't own my truth," she says.
"I don't want to own it," I answer, tracing the edge of her jaw with my thumb, forcing her eyes to mine. "I want to hear it from your lips while you're too honest to lie."
Her pulse beats under my fingers, fast, betraying her. She tries to cover it with a laugh that sounds too thin.
"You mistake hunger for confession."
"And you mistake protection for a cage," I say, pushing her back just enough to pin her against the desk. The candle behind her throws firelight along her throat, and the sight drags something hot and old out of me.
Her hands fist in my shirt, not pulling me closer, not pushing me away. Waiting. Testing.
"You watch Aleksandr," she whispers. "You watch me."
"Yes," I admit, bending until my breath grazes her ear. "Because I want no man touching what I intend to touch."
She shivers, then bites down on the sound that wants to escape. I catch it anyway, catching her chin and drawing her back to my mouth, slower this time, deeper.
The desk edge digs into her hips as I press her harder into it, her thighs tightening against me in reflex. I taste resistance and need in equal measure. "Say it," I tell her between kisses, voice rough. "Say you want me here. Say you'll give me truth with your body, not just your words."
Her nails rake lightly across my neck. She doesn't say yes.
She doesn't say no. She leans in and bites my lower lip instead, dragging heat from me in a growl.
I half expect her to pull away, but instead she smiles, not softly or kindly but like a woman who knows exactly how far she can tilt the balance.
"You think you lead this," she whispers. "You don't."
Before I can answer, she slips out of my hold. The sudden absence of her body against mine is a sharper cut than her teeth. She sinks slowly to her knees, deliberate, her eyes never leaving mine. My breath catches—not because I'm unprepared, but because I know exactly what this means.
"Valya," I start, my voice lower than I want it to be.
"Don't command me," she interrupts, fingers already at my belt. "Not here. Not now. You wanted truth? Watch."
The sound of leather sliding through brass fills the room, louder than the candle's hiss. Her hands are steady, purposeful, and when she frees me, the cool air of the room is nothing against the heat that surges from her touch.
I brace a hand against the desk behind me, the other curling reflexively in her hair. She tilts her head just enough to make it clear. She allows my hand there, nothing more.
Her mouth hovers, breath warm, tormenting. "Still think I need a roof?"
My throat tightens around a laugh that comes out rough. "I think I need mercy."
She doesn't give it. Her tongue drags slowly along the length of me, unhurried, deliberate cruelty. My body jerks despite every effort at restraint. She watches me over the curve of her cheek, eyes burning with triumph.
"Tell me," she says, lips grazing, voice thick with defiance. "Tell me you're in control."
I grit out her name, but the sound breaks when she takes me fully into her mouth, all the way, her hand firm at the base. Fire floods me, and control becomes a story I can't sell to myself anymore.
Her rhythm is steady, merciless, swallowing down every ounce of command I thought I carried into this room. Each drag of her mouth is an argument she is winning, each flick of her tongue another truth forced out of me.
"Valya—" My hand tightens in her hair, not to stop her, but because if I don't hold something, I'll shatter.
She pulls back just long enough to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes gleaming, lips wet.
"That's truth," she says, then takes me again, fiercer, as if she intends to break every vow I've ever made by the sound of my own breath.
Her mouth seals around me again, and the sound it makes—wet, raw, a low choke when I push too far—scrapes fire straight up my spine.
I grit my teeth, my hand flexing in her hair.
She thinks she's setting the pace. She's wrong.
"Open wider," I growl, pushing her down until her throat protests with a gag. The vibration nearly undoes me. She claws at my thigh, not to escape, but to hold steady as I drag her back and forth on me.
The room fills with the slap of my hips against her mouth, the wet pull of her lips, the muffled, desperate noises she makes every time I bury myself deeper. Each sound drives me harder, until I'm fucking into her with a rhythm that feels like punishment and prayer at once.
Her eyes water, mascara smudging at the corners, and I swear she's never looked more dangerous. She tries to smile around me, a garbled hum that sends a violent shiver through me.
"Do you hear yourself?" I rasp, pumping her mouth slowly, then hard again, savoring the way her throat takes me. "That's not defiance. That's surrender."
She gags when I hold her there, my grip iron in her hair.
Her nails dig crescents into my thigh and the sound that rips out of her throat is obscene, perfect.
I ease her back just enough to let her breathe, strings of saliva catching the candlelight between us.
Her chest heaves, lips swollen, spit smeared across her chin.
"Not surrender," she gasps, voice wrecked. "Choice."
That word makes something snap in me. I fist her hair tighter, drag her back down onto me, thrusting deep, faster now, the desk rattling under my grip as her gags turn to wet, helpless sounds.
The noise fills the room like confession.
Every shove into her throat is a demand, every pull back a denial, and still she takes it, still she lets me.
"Choice?" I snarl, hips jerking, her throat wrapping tightly. "Then choose to choke for me."
Her throat works around me, gag after gag, spit slicking her chin, dripping down onto her blouse. The wet choke of it, the obscene suction, the slap of my hips—it's a symphony of ruin, and I'm the one playing her.
Her eyes roll up for a moment when I hold her down too long, and the gag that tears out of her is so sharp it almost breaks me. My jaw locks and my thighs tremble with the effort of not finishing right there.
"Fuck," I snarl, yanking her off me, my cock leaving her mouth with a wet pop and a strand of spit snapping between us. She gasps, coughing, mascara streaked, lips red and swollen.
Before she can smirk her victory, I've got her hauled up by the wrist, spinning her into me. Her body collides with my chest, and I slam my mouth down on hers, tasting myself on her tongue, tasting the wreck I made of her.
"You think you're the only one who can take control?" I growl against her lips.
She tries to answer, but I'm already lifting her, setting her on the desk, shoving her skirt up and dragging her panties aside in one brutal sweep. The smell of her—hot, wet, waiting—wrecks every ounce of discipline I thought I had left.
I drop to my knees.
Her breath catches, a sharp intake, her thighs tensing around my shoulders. "Dmitri—"
"Shut up," I mutter into the heat of her, tongue flattening and dragging slowly from the very bottom of her to the slick ache of her clit. Her hips jerk, a strangled sound ripping out of her throat.
I lick her again, harder this time, then suck, pulling her into my mouth until she cries out, the sound half broken, half furious. I want her ruined on my tongue. I want every noise she tries to swallow.
Her fingers knot in my hair, not to stop me—never that—but to anchor herself as I work her open, lips and tongue relentless.
Her taste floods me, sharp and sweet, and I growl against her, the vibration making her buck.
She gasps my name like a curse, head falling back, thighs trembling against my grip.
I drag my tongue in hard circles, sucking until her breath fractures into jagged pieces.
Every sound she makes, every whimper, every muffled cry, I take it in, swallow it down like proof.
"Truth," I mutter into her, tongue flicking mercilessly. "This is your truth."
Her body arches under my mouth, thighs tightening hard enough to bruise against my shoulders.
She's panting, broken sounds tumbling out of her throat, one hand fisting my hair, the other clawing the edge of the desk.
I know the moment she's at the edge. Her breath catches, her hips grinding desperately against my face, her voice breaking into a sharp, pleading cry she can't hold back.
I pin her thighs wider and bury my mouth deeper, tongue lashing her clit until she shudders. "Come for me," I growl into her, and the command tips her over.
Her whole body jerks, back bowing, a strangled scream tearing free as she comes hard on my tongue. I drink it in, the taste, the sound, the way she shakes as if she's fighting it and losing anyway.
And when she's still caught in that quake, when her orgasm is tearing her open and leaving her raw, I don't give her time to breathe.
I rise in one motion, cock already taut, and slam into her with a single brutal thrust. Her cry breaks again, shock, pleasure, the last ripples of climax colliding with the sudden stretch of my filling her.
Her nails rake down my back through the fabric of my shirt, her head snapping forward to press into my shoulder as I drive into her, deep, hard, unrelenting.
"Dmitri." It comes out a gasp, half protest, half prayer.
"Say it," I snarl against her ear, hips pounding, desk rattling beneath us. "Say this is where your truth belongs."
Her reply is a scream caught between my name and a sob of pleasure, her body tightening around me, milking me as I thrust harder into the wet heat that's still spasming from her climax.
I grip her jaw, forcing her to look at me, her lips parted, her pupils blown wide.
"Look at me when you come again," I growl, slamming into her until her words dissolve into sound.
The desk shudders under us, papers scattering, the candle guttering in its glass.
My hands lock her hips in place as I drive into her, deep and brutal, every thrust dragging another broken sound from her throat.
She's still trembling from the first orgasm, but I don't let her down, don't let her catch her breath.
Her pussy grips me tighter with every stroke, pulling me deeper, making it harder to hold the line.
I grit out her name against her ear, sweat sliding down my temple, jaw clenched as I slam harder.
"Again," I order, voice rough, teeth catching her skin. "You're going to come for me again."
She shakes her head, gasping, "I can't," but her body betrays her, clutching me tighter, clenching around me in helpless pulses that say she's already close.
"You can," I snarl, grinding into her, pressing deep, my thumb finding her clit and circling hard, merciless. "You will."
Her cry splits the air, high and sharp, nails carving fire down my back. Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging in, and she breaks, her second orgasm tearing through her, body convulsing, every squeeze around my cock dragging me closer to the edge.
"Fuck!" The word rips out of me as the heat coils tightly, snapping, and I spill inside her in heavy, violent pulses. I hold her hips down, buried to the hilt, feeling every spasm of her cunt milking me, pulling every last drop.
Her head falls back, throat arched, the sound she makes somewhere between a sob and a moan.
I can feel her heartbeat through her body, frantic against mine.
I stay inside her, chest heaving, hand still gripping her jaw so she can't look away.
Her lips are parted, her face wrecked, but her eyes burn, furious, triumphant, alive.
I kiss her once, savage and slow, tasting everything we just burned through. "You wanted truth," I murmur against her mouth, still buried deep inside her. "That was mine."
Her body softens under me, the tremors fading into slow breaths, her nails leaving shallow crescents in my skin as she loosens her grip.
I keep my weight braced on one arm so she isn't crushed, my other hand sliding down to smooth her thigh where I've left the muscle trembling.
She leans into me, sweat-damp hair clinging to her cheek, and for the first time since she walked in, her voice isn't sharpened for a fight.
"If this is going to work," she murmurs, her lips brushing the side of my neck, "you have to trust me."
I lift my head, searching her face. She holds my eyes steady, no flicker, no hesitation. "You have to take me at my word when I say I hate Aleksandr, that I see no future there." Her tone is steady, but there's an edge under it, the kind that comes from exhaustion as much as defiance.
I breathe out slowly, thumb stroking along her jaw, memorizing the steadiness she's giving me. The words are what I want to hear, but wanting and believing are not the same thing.
Jealousy is an ugly thing, and it has grown inside me like a root that won't cut clean. Aleksandr's name is in my blood now, sour, bitter. Every time I hear it, I see him too close, his mouth forming apologies he never earns, his shadow stretching over her like it belongs.
"I believe you hate him," I finally say, my voice low, careful, "but what I can't believe is that he's finished with you. Men like him don't let go. They circle. They wait for weakness."
She closes her eyes briefly, as if she can already hear the argument forming. "Then you'll just have to believe me when I say his weakness isn't me anymore."
I want to take that and hold it, but suspicion gnaws at the edges of my mind. Aleksandr has always been clever with silence, with patience. I can feel it like the weather turning—some ulterior motive curling behind his smile, some play I haven't seen yet. The thought of it makes my jaw tighten.
Her hand presses to my chest, steady, grounding. "Trust me, Dmitri. Or you'll break this before Aleksandr ever can."
The words land harder than her nails or her defiance.
I kiss her forehead once, lingering, my mouth against the heat of her skin.
I want to give her what she asks, but the truth is already written in the back of my skull.
Jealousy has teeth, and suspicion keeps them sharp.
I stay there, holding her, but the thought of Aleksandr does not leave the room.