29. Sofiya
SOFIYA
A year later
I still know the house by its sounds before I know it by sight. Guards changing downstairs. Elevator doors opening somewhere beyond the hall. Rain tapping against the balcony glass.
Our daughter laughing in the kitchen with Zhenya, who has apparently decided babysitting means feeding her mashed cherries and insulting Anton’s coffee while armed men pretend not to smile.
The whole place feels different now, less like Anton’s fortress and more like a home that learned to make room for toys, blankets, bottles, and one very serious little girl with his eyes and my temper.
Anton stands behind me at the balcony doors, one hand spread over my stomach, the other resting at my throat in that careful, possessive way that still makes my pulse trip. “She’s safe,” he murmurs against my ear, because he knows exactly where my mind goes when the house gets too calm.
I lean back into him, feeling the hard line of his body, the warmth of his mouth near my neck, and the warm, helpless pull of wanting him. “I know,” I whisper, and his fingers tighten just enough to make my breath catch.
“Then stop listening for trouble,” he says, voice softer than his hands, “and look at me.” He turns me in his arms, a slow pivot that pushes my back to the glass and my front to the heat of him. His eyes are pure molten, ringed with iron focus that promises a different kind of interrogation.
I lift my chin, meet his gaze. “You don’t like when I pay attention.”
“I like when you pay attention to me.” He kisses me before I can scoff, mouth slow, confident, the pressure building until the rest of the house slides out of reach.
My hands brace against his chest; his lips coax mine open and slide in like he entered a room he owns.
I breathe him in—leather, clean soap, gunpowder ghosting under the expensive aftershave—and let him swallow the frustrated sound vibrating in my throat.
Rain streaks the glass behind us. I can see our reflection—my hair loose around my shoulders, the edge of the silk robe he gifted me after the baby, his suit jacket open, shirt unbuttoned at the throat.
The city beyond glows in a haze of neon and wet pavement, but all I care about is the way his hand drags the robe’s belt loose, the whisper of fabric parting, the cool air kissing bare skin as the silk pools at my feet.
He steps back half an inch to look at me, eyes moving up and down like he’s memorizing a crime scene.
“Fuck, Sofiya.” Every syllable is gravel.
He hooks a finger under my chin, tips it up.
“Do you know what you look like right now? Bare feet, naked, slick mouth, pulse racing under my hand.” His palm slides over my throat.
“Tell me what’s going through your head. ”
“You,” I say. “And the way you’re wasting time talking.”
He laughs, low and dangerous, and drops to his knees.
The move is a warning bell in my blood. Anton kneeling is always a harbinger of ruined self-control.
He wraps his hands around my calves, gliding up to my thighs, spreading them until I lean back against the glass to keep balance.
Rain thrums behind me. His breath warms the inside of my knee, teeth grazing lightly. My hips jerk.
“You still taste like the woman who almost murdered me when we met,” he says, and the memory is so sharp, I nearly smile. “Hold the glass.”
I press my palms against the cold pane, fingers splayed. His thumbs pull my thighs wider. The first drag of his tongue up my slit nearly buckles my knees. Heat flares vivid enough to blind. He groans like a starving man at the first bite of meat. I bite my lip to keep a cry contained.
“Don’t hold back,” he orders against my skin, voice muffled by wet flesh.
“Nobody out there can see you.” His mouth closes around my clit and he sucks hard.
I gasp, pressing harder to the glass, their temperature and his heat fusing into a thrill that makes my toes curl.
He flicks his tongue, slow, deliberate, circling, then flattening for wide strokes that spread my slick up, down, everywhere he wants it.
“Anton—” It’s a plea and a curse tangled into one.
He answers with a rumbling mmm that vibrates against my clit and shoves me closer to the edge.
His fingers dig into my ass, tilting me for deeper access.
He’s relentless—tongue stroking inside me, lips sealing around my clit, teeth scraping lightly before he soothes with suction.
I look down. My hair brushes the glass, my breasts rise and fall fast, and he watches me like a man worshipping a god.
His eyes stay locked on mine even while his mouth works, and there’s something nearly reverent in the way he devours me.
My thighs tremble, not from cold, but from the coil building low and tight.
“You want more?” he asks, breath hot against my soaked fold.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He slides two fingers into me, thick and sure, curling them as he goes.
I moan, high and sharp. He pumps, knuckles pressing, the heel of his hand grinding my clit while his tongue circles lower, tasting the slick mess he’s creating.
The wet sound fills the quiet room, obscene music that mixes with the steady patter of rain.
“You’re dripping on my floor,” he says, voice guttural, as though it’s the best problem he’s ever had.
“Your fault,” I manage, fingers whitening on the glass.
“Mine,” he agrees, curling his fingers harder and drawing a ragged cry from my chest. “Come for me.”
I shake my head, wanting to drag the moment longer, but my body betrays me.
The pressure surges, blistering. He flicks his tongue against my clit in the exact rhythm he knows will make me break.
I choke, hips jerking, and the orgasm slams through me so hard it’s almost painful.
“Anton!” My thighs clamp around his head.
He keeps his face buried against me, lapping, swallowing every pulse while the aftershocks rip through my core.
He stands, mouth shiny with me, eyes dark. His lower lip glistens, and I drag him up to kiss him, desperate to taste myself on his tongue. The kiss is filthy and soft all at once. I breathe hard, lungs burning, heat still licking down my spine.
She’s safe, I remind myself, but it melts into she’s safe and he’s here and I’m alive, and every piece of fear morphs into hunger.
He breaks the kiss, spins me gently so my chest hits the glass. “Hands up,” he orders. I raise them, fingers sliding over the smooth pane. The city lights blur in my peripheral vision, but his reflection stands strong in the glass behind me, towering, all sharp edges and protective hunger.
His hands stroke down my arms, across my ribs, pausing to squeeze breasts, thumb rolling nipples until I whine.
He bites my ear, sucks the lobe into his mouth, breathes against my neck.
They’re small touches that light up nerve endings all over my body.
He skims my waist, hooks fingers in the curve of my hip, and slips his other hand between my legs again. I spread instinctively.
“Still wet,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “You always give me everything.” He slides his fingers in again, spreading, fucking me lazily until I arch back. He pulls free, stands tight behind me, and I feel the thick blunt head of his cock press against my entrance.
“Do it,” I say, impatient. He grips my hips and thrusts in one smooth stroke that knocks the breath out of me. The stretch is familiar and violent, a brand engraved a thousand times and still never enough. He fills me completely, the base of his cock grinding my ass, pelvis flush against mine.
His lips find my shoulder. “Never enough of you,” he whispers, and then he moves.
Deep, steady thrusts that press my breasts to the glass, smash my nipples against the cold surface, goosebumps racing across my skin from the temperature contrast and the relentless pace.
His hands clamp down on my hips, dragging me back onto him, forcing me to take every inch.
My forehead rests against the glass. Rain blurs the city lines, making the world look like impressionistic lights and motion.
I can’t focus on anything except the points where our bodies connect—the slide of his cock, the scrape of his stubble against my neck, the warmth of his breath, the strength of his hands.
He groans low, biting the base of my neck, teeth sinking just enough to mark.
“Look outside,” he demands. “Look what we own now.”
I open my eyes. The skyline stretches endless, glowing through the rain, a city that used to spell threat and ambition.
Now it’s ours. Not because he wanted a throne, but because we needed somewhere to build a safe life for our child, for each other.
The thought tightens something in my chest. He feels the shift, drives into me harder, deeper, as though he wants to hammer the point home physically as well as verbally.
“I’m here,” he says against my shoulder. “I’m not letting anything touch you.” He punctuates each word with a thrust that nudges against the spot inside me that flashes like a live wire. Sparks shoot up my spine. My mouth opens on a soundless gasp.
“Anton.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t stop.”
He lifts one hand, slides it up my body to wrap around my throat from the front, fingers pressing lightly on the sides, thumb stroking my jaw.
My pulse beats frantic under his grip. He whispers in my ear.
“Feel that? Your heart’s racing. Let me move it where I want.
” He squeezes just enough to make the world narrow, to make every nerve sharpen on the thrust of his cock.
I moan, the sound strangled by his hand.