15. Sofiya
SOFIYA
Anton keeps his shoulders loose, but there’s tension buzzing under his skin like an exposed wire that could catch us both on fire. “You going to strip out of those wet clothes,” he asks, “or just stand there shaking?”
I kick off my boots and pry the mud-caked trousers down my legs, peeling the damp material away from my skin, hating how cold I feel without them, hating that his eyes darken as he watches me like I’m his reward for surviving another ambush.
The linen shirt clings to me, half-buttoned, stuck at the waist.
I tug it over my head and fling it aside, leaving me in a black bra and panties that survived the chase better than my patience.
Anton steps closer, shrugging off his coat, then his sweater, until he stands bare-chested, scars cutting pale lines across his skin, the muscles in his shoulders flexing with suppressed fury.
“You look like something I should pray to,” he says roughly.
“Try touching me first, Reznikov,” I snap, “then worry about worship.”
His hand catches my jaw. “Bossy little witch,” he murmurs, voice drenched in hunger. “You don’t know how much I like your mouth when you’re threatening me.”
“I want you angry,” I tell him, pressing my nails into his wrist. “I want you fucking me like they almost kept you from reaching me.”
His eyes flare, something savage and tender tangled together, and his grip tightens. “You want angry? You want me reminding you who dragged you out of Budapest?”
He drives me back until I’m pressed against the wardrobe, breath punched out of me, the wood hard against my spine. He pins my wrists above my head, ropes of muscle tightening in his forearms, chest brushing my breasts until my nipples pebble under the thin lace.
“Try me,” I hiss.
He kisses me like he’s biting my heart out, teeth catching my lip, tongue sweeping in to taste the copper tang of blood he just drew.
I groan into his mouth, “Ahh, fuck.” And he swallows it, forcing his thigh between mine to grind against my pussy.
The lace is soaked, my clit throbbing. I roll my hips, desperate, rubbing myself on his leg like I’m feral, and he laughs darkly.
“Need it that bad?” he taunts.
I yank one wrist free, grab the back of his head, and drag him in again. “You get off on making me beg,” I breathe against his lips. “Here it is. Give me that cock, Anton.”
“Fucking hell,” he growls. He slides his hand down, drags my panties aside, and drives two fingers into me.
I throw my head back, nails raking his shoulder.
The stretch is perfect, angles deep, his palm grinding my clit.
He pistons his fingers in and out, knuckles slamming my entrance, wrist relentless.
Wet sounds fill the cramped room, obscene and hungry.
“You feel this?” he snarls in my ear. “That soaked, tight pussy choking my fingers? That’s mine.” He thrusts harder. “Mine to protect. Mine to fuck. Mine to break.”
“Fuck you,” I gasp, clenching around him. “Fuck you for thinking you own me.”
He curls his fingers, hits that tender spot, and my knees buckle. “Oh, God, Anton.” He hammers me, thumb circling my clit, mindless pleasure crashing through me.
“Come on,” he urges. “Scream for me. Give it up.”
I shatter, release ripping through me as I wail his name. “Anton! Fuck—” My pussy spasms, soaking his hand, thighs shaking. He keeps pumping, milking the orgasm until I’m swearing and clawing at his chest to make him stop. He withdraws, glistening, and brings his fingers to my mouth.
“Clean me,” he commands.
I see red. I grab his wrist and suck his fingers down, tongue swirling, tasting my own slick. He groans, eyes hooded. “You look perfect doing that,” he says. I bite down, not enough to hurt, enough to warn, and he laughs under his breath. “You’re such a vicious little princess.”
He shoves me toward the bed. “Hands and knees,” he orders.
“No,” I say, defiant, but my body betrays me by already moving, climbing onto the mattress and bracing on all fours. “Fuck you for ordering me.”
He strips his belt, his pants, his boxer briefs, cock springing free, thick and pulsing, veins cording the length. My mouth waters. He drags the belt through his fist, the leather whispering, and something dark rolls through me.
“You don’t like orders?” he asks.
“I like control,” I throw back, looking over my shoulder. “If you want me down, you fight me for it.”
He tosses the belt aside and crawls onto the bed, looming behind me. His palm smacks my ass, sharp and hot. I gasp, and he rubs the sting with his fingers. “You’re flushed,” he notes, voice wicked. “You’re wet again just from the sound.”
“I’m mad,” I growl.
“You’re both,” he corrects and slaps me again, harder, the crack echoing. “Say you want more.”
“Go to hell.”
He spanks me again, even harder, and heat blooms across my cheek. I whine despite myself. “Say it,” he insists.
“Fuck you,” I hiss. “More. Happy?”
He laughs, breathing ragged. “Ecstatic.” He smacks my ass twice more, then catches the waistband of my panties with both hands and rips them clean, shredding the lace and tossing the scraps aside. Cool air hits my soaked slit and I tremble.
He spreads my cheeks, glides his thumb down to my cunt, collects the slick, and coats the head of his cock with it. He nudges the tip at my entrance, teasing. “Still angry?” he asks.
“Yes,” I snap, pressing back. “Stop talking.”
He slams into me in one relentless thrust. I scream, “Fuck!” He fills me to the hilt, thick cock stretching me, hips slamming into my ass.
He doesn’t pause, banging into me over and over, the bed frame slamming into the wall with each brutal stroke.
My breasts bounce, nipples scraping the sheets, and I moan, “Ahh. Anton, yes.”
“Listen to yourself,” he grits. “You’re dripping. You love it when I handle you like this.”
“I hate you,” I gasp, pushing back to meet his thrusts, the friction exquisite. “I hate how good you fuck me.”
“Lie all you want,” he says, slapping my ass again mid-thrust. “Your pussy tells me the truth.” He drives deeper, relentless, the sound of flesh hitting flesh loud and wet. “You feel that?” he demands. “Feel my cock owning your tight little hole?”
“Yes,” I sob, overwhelmed. “Don’t stop. Please.”
He leans over me, chest to my back, one hand gripping my hair and yanking my head up. “Say my name.”
“Anton,” I whimper.
“Again.”
“Anton.” I’m panting, drooling, desperate. He growls and kisses the back of my neck, tongue hot on my skin, then sinks his teeth into my shoulder hard enough to bruise. I cry out. “Ahh!”
“That’s mine,” he snarls against the bite. “They’ll see it in the morning and know you were screaming on my cock.”
He slams into me faster, deeper, his balls slapping my clit, sending sparks shooting through me. “You getting close?” he pants. “You going to come for me like a good girl?”
“I’m not your girl,” I chant, but my body is betraying me, clit throbbing, orgasm coiling. “Fuck—yes—keep fucking me—”
He snakes his hand around and slaps my clit, sharp and perfect. I convulse, screaming, “Anton!” The orgasm detonates, my cunt clamping down on him, pulsating, milking his length. He roars, hips stuttering, and I feel him swell, then pour hot cum deep inside me, flooding me.
“Jesus, Sofiya,” he groans, shuddering. “Fuck, you feel incredible.”
He stays buried inside, breathing hard, hands still gripping my hips. I collapse onto the mattress, cheek pressed to the sheet, body limp. He pulls out slowly, his cock sliding free, cum dripping down my thighs. I whimper at the loss.
He rolls me onto my back and braces himself over me, kissing me hard again, owning my mouth as thoroughly as he owned my body. I taste sweat, blood, lust. He pulls back, eyes dark. “Still angry?”
“Yes,” I whisper, even as I reach up to anchor him to me. “But I’m not done.”
He smirks, wipes his thumb across my lower lip, and then sucks it clean. “Neither am I.”
This time, I don’t recall how many turns we take or when both of us fall asleep. Morning comes too fast, and by the time I’m fully awake, we’re already moving.
Anton gets me across the border with a speed that makes it clear he’d planned routes like this long before I ever became part of one.
There are no crowded terminals, no waiting rooms, no ordinary delays.
Cars change twice. Papers appear when needed.
Men meet us, speak little, and move fast. By the time Moscow rises around us in gray glass and traffic, my anger has grown, but so has my curiosity.
We go directly to his penthouse, which is beautiful in the way such things often are. He has a private bar, a gymnasium, a park—everything I could ask for. But wherever I look, I see men in uniform. I stop just inside the entrance and look at him. “You dragged me into a cage.”
He takes off his coat and hands it to a woman who appears soundlessly from nowhere. “You’re still breathing, and so is our child.”
“That answer’s getting old.”
He shrugs, and suddenly, the humor I’d seen in him has cooled and he’s… colder. “It’s still correct.”
I refuse breakfast. I refuse the tea set out in front of me. I refuse the doctor he brings in within the hour, some polished woman in a cream blouse with calm hands and a medical case.
“You’re not touching me,” I tell her.
She looks at Anton. He looks at me.
“Sofiya.”
“No.”
His mouth flattens, but he nods once and dismisses her. That small victory keeps me upright for another ten minutes. Then he starts laying out rules as if he’s announcing meeting notes.
“You don’t leave alone. Your care is under my supervision. No one here speaks to you without clearance, and no information goes out unless I allow it.”
I laugh once. “You really hear yourself and keep going.”
His gaze stays on mine. “I haven’t gotten to the important part.”
“God help me.”
“In this house, and in Brotherhood eyes, you are no longer only a Leonidov woman.”
I go still.
He steps closer, not touching, but close enough that I can see he means every word. “You’re carrying Reznikov blood now. This is your home.”