Chapter 9 Nadya #2
Neither does he.
We just…look at each other.
How long has he been standing there?
Did he hear?
His gaze drops to the phone still glowing dimly on the bed beside me, then flicks back to my face. “Everything alright?” he asks, voice low, casual.
Too casual.
I nod, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. “Fine.”
He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask who I was talking to.
But I see it—the flicker of something behind his eyes. Curiosity, suspicion…or maybe just the slow understanding that I’m not as simple as he thought I was.
I should be scared.
Before I can say anything else, Konstantin moves fully into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. My heart pounds hard enough that I’m sure he can hear it in the silence that stretches between us. His gaze, dark and unreadable, never leaves mine as he crosses the floor toward me.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, voice catching in my throat.
He doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, he steps close, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the way his chest rises and falls, see the shadow of stubble along his jaw. My breath hitches sharply, every nerve in my body lighting up at the proximity.
He leans down, slow but unhesitating, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that steals every ounce of rational thought from my head.
The taste of vodka and something undeniably masculine floods my senses.
His kiss is deep, possessive, demanding everything I have to offer and promising nothing gentle in return.
I gasp softly against his mouth, my fingers clutching at his shirt, trying to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.
He breaks away just enough to murmur roughly against my lips, “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m too breathless, too confused, too overwhelmed by the sudden, consuming hunger that flares white-hot between us.
And when I don’t push him away, his lips trail downward, tasting my jaw, my throat, lingering on the sensitive pulse beating wildly beneath my skin.
His hands slide beneath my dress, warm palms against my thighs, parting them slowly, deliberately.
I tremble in response, my breath shallow, my body arching toward his touch even though I know I should be pushing him away.
“Konstantin—” My voice is barely audible, more breath than sound.
“Shh, let me taste you,” he whispers, his voice dark velvet against my skin. “You drive me fucking insane.” He bites softly at my neck, making me shiver beneath his touch.
I barely recognize my own voice when I whisper, “Then stop.”
But instead of pulling away, he sinks lower, lips trailing down my collarbone, teasing along the edge of my neckline until his mouth brushes against the swell of my tits.
Heat pools low and intense between my thighs as he cups one breast firmly through the thin fabric, his thumb stroking deliberately over my nipple until it tightens into an aching peak.
I gasp, arching instinctively into his touch, my head falling back. Every nerve in my body screams for more, for relief from this unbearable tension he’s created.
As if sensing my desperation, Konstantin pushes me gently back onto the bed, dropping to his knees between my parted thighs. He slides my dress upward, slowly baring my skin inch by inch until I’m fully exposed beneath him, my cunt throbbing under his hungry stare.
“Fuck, Nadya,” he growls softly, his voice rough with need. His breath is hot against my inner thighs, sending tremors through my muscles. “You’re already so wet.”
I moan softly as his fingers part me gently, teasing and exploring with unbearable patience before his tongue finally finds my clit. A breathless cry escapes me, my hips bucking up toward his mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction.
“Please,” I whisper, the word spilling out without thought or permission.
His grip tightens on my thighs, holding me wide open and immobile beneath him as he continues to lick and suck hungrily at my sensitive clit. Every stroke of his tongue sends white-hot sparks through my veins, every flick pushing me closer to a breaking point I don’t even know if I can handle.
“You’re mine,” he growls, dragging his tongue firmly over my swollen clit, his eyes locked possessively on mine. “Say it.”
When I don’t respond immediately—too lost in the sensation—he slides two fingers into my cunt, curling them deliberately against the spot that makes me see stars.
“Say it, Nadya,” he demands roughly.
“I’m yours,” I gasp out, my voice breaking, hips grinding desperately against his hand and mouth. “God, Konstantin—please—”
With a satisfied groan, he devours me fully, his mouth and fingers working me mercilessly, pushing me closer and closer to the edge until my thighs tremble uncontrollably around him. Pleasure coils tighter, deeper, until suddenly, violently, it snaps.
I come hard, clenching around his fingers, my entire body arching and shuddering beneath him as I cry out his name, completely undone by his touch.
When the last tremors fade, he slowly withdraws his fingers, pressing one last gentle kiss against my oversensitive clit. He looks up at me then, his dark eyes burning with possessive satisfaction and something softer, more complicated.
I lie there, utterly spent, breathing ragged, chest heaving, my tits rising and falling sharply beneath his lingering gaze.
He doesn’t stop.
Not yet.
Konstantin rises from between my thighs, his mouth and jaw slick with the evidence of what he just did to me. His gaze drags up my body—over my trembling stomach, the rise and fall of my chest, my flushed, heaving tits—and settles on my face like I’m something to be devoured all over again.
He leans over me, bracing a hand on either side of my head, and captures my mouth in another kiss. This one is slower, deeper, drugged with heat. I can taste myself on his tongue. It makes me even wetter.
My legs fall open beneath him instinctively. I feel the press of him through his pants—hard, heavy, straining. My body aches for more, for all of him, and for a second, I stop thinking altogether.
I want him. I want him so badly it hurts.
But then—
A memory cuts through the haze.
Barcelona. The warm night air. His mouth on my neck, whispering sweet nothings. Me, laughing like a fool, believing it was something rare. Something worth remembering.
He didn’t even know it was me at the auction.
He looked at me and saw nothing but a product. A contract. A woman with a nice body and a famous last name. He kissed me like a stranger tonight because that’s all I am to him now.
One small, traitorous tear slips quietly down my cheek before I can stop it.
Konstantin freezes instantly, feeling it against his own skin. He pulls back slowly, his dark eyes searching mine, his breathing still uneven, lips still parted. He stares down at me, seeing something he doesn’t quite understand yet.
Without a word, he moves his lips gently across my cheek, brushing away the single tear that betrayed me. His tongue flicks out softly, tenderly, tasting the salt of my sorrow, acknowledging it, absorbing it.
I can’t look away, my heart beating painfully in my chest, my breath coming in shaky, uneven bursts.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t demand answers, or explanations, or apologies.
Instead, he lifts himself away from me, moving carefully, gently, leaving behind an emptiness that feels colder than I expected. I lie quietly on the bed, suddenly cold and vulnerable in my own skin, as Konstantin sits up slowly, running one hand roughly over his face, breathing hard.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
The silence stretches painfully between us until finally, he stands, adjusts his shirt, and moves toward the door.
The space where his body had been is suddenly cold.
The warmth he left on my skin is already fading like the rest of the fantasy I should’ve known better than to indulge.
He stands there a moment, his back to me, jaw tense. “Get some sleep,” he says softly—too softly—without looking back.
And he walks out.
Leaving me aching in more ways than one.
I sleep longer than I mean to.
When I finally crack my eyes open, sunlight is bleeding in through the tall windows, casting clean golden stripes across the hardwood floors. For a moment, I just lie there, unmoving, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer me answers.
But there’s nothing.
Just a dull ache behind my ribs and the ghost of his mouth between my thighs.
I don’t go downstairs. Not right away.
I shower. Dress slowly. Tie my hair back with fingers that tremble too much, then make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror.
I don’t look ruined. I don’t even look different.
But I feel it.
I feel the unraveling.
It isn’t until my stomach growls loud enough to echo through the quiet that I force myself out of the room.
The house is just as quiet as it was when I arrived—grand and cold and full of shadows that feel more like watchers than decor. The hallways are too long, the ceilings too high. The scent of coffee and something warm and buttery leads me toward the kitchen.
He’s not there.
Of course he isn’t.
I exhale in relief and take a seat at the far end of the long dining table. Someone—staff maybe—has left a tray of food out. I pick at it slowly. Eggs. Toast. A cup of coffee that’s still hot.
I barely take two bites before I hear footsteps.
I freeze.
And then he walks in.
Konstantin. His shirt is half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. He looks tired. Not rough or angry—just worn.
I keep my eyes on my plate.
He says nothing as he crosses the kitchen, his boots quiet on the stone. For a moment, I think he’s going to pour himself a cup of coffee, or maybe grab something from the fridge and go.
But then—
He pulls out the chair next to me. And sits down.
Right next to me.
I stop chewing, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth.
The silence is thick enough to choke on.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, too close, body warm and solid, like nothing happened between us. Like he didn’t pull me apart with his mouth last night. Like he didn’t lick a tear off my cheek and walk away like none of it mattered.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice into something neutral. “If this is about last night—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “Don’t,” he says, quiet but firm.
I push my chair back, ready to stand, to put space between us, but his hand reaches out and closes over mine before I can.
I go still. His hand is still over mine, warm and steady, but not forcing anything. Just…holding me there.
I don’t look at him, not right away. I’m too busy trying to steady the tight, confused knot in my chest.
The memory of last night still burns under my skin—the way he touched me, kissed me, looked at me—followed by the cold void he left when he walked away.
I keep my eyes on my coffee cup, fingers curling slightly beneath his palm, tension flickering in my wrists, my throat, the air between us.
If he says something cruel now—
If he pretends none of it meant anything—
I swear I’ll—
But then he says the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.
“I need your help.”