Chapter 14
Anya
The air between us went electric, charged with something that made my skin feel too tight for my body. Ivan stood perfectly still for three heartbeats—I counted them, watched his pulse jump in his throat, saw the exact moment his control shattered like expensive crystal hitting marble.
He crossed the room in three strides that ate up distance like a predator finally released from its cage. His hands found my face first, fingers threading into my still-damp hair, and then his mouth crashed into mine with a desperation that rewired my entire nervous system.
This wasn't a careful, controlled kiss. This was wild, unhinged, years of suppressed want condensed into the press of lips and teeth and tongue.
He kissed me like he was drowning and I was oxygen, like he'd been starving and I was sustenance, like the world would end if he didn't consume me completely.
My back hit the wall—when had we moved?—and his body pressed against mine, all hard planes and barely contained need.
His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming and exploring, and the taste of him—coffee and mint and something essentially Ivan—made my knees buckle.
Only his weight pinning me to the wall kept me upright.
I was panting when he finally pulled back, gasping for air that had turned thick as honey.
But his mouth didn't leave my skin, just relocated to my neck, finding that spot below my ear that made me see stars.
His teeth scraped against my pulse point, and the sound that escaped me didn't belong to any language.
"Anya," he groaned against my throat, and my name in his wrecked voice made my pussy clench with violent need. "Fuck, Anya, you have no idea—"
His hands were everywhere suddenly, sliding under my shirt, spanning my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. Each touch felt like fire. I arched into him, desperate for more contact, more pressure, more everything.
"Off," I managed, tugging at his shirt with hands that shook. "Please, I need—"
He pulled back just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and the sight of him—lean muscle and sharp lines and that trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband—made my mouth go dry.
My hands found his chest immediately, mapping territories I'd only imagined.
His skin was fever-hot under my palms, his heartbeat hammering against my fingertips like it was trying to escape.
"Your turn," he said, voice rough as gravel, and his hands were already gathering the hem of my shirt. I lifted my arms, let him pull it away, and the hunger in his eyes when he saw me in just my simple cotton bra made me feel like a goddess.
"Beautiful," he breathed, then his mouth was on me again, kissing along my collarbone while his fingers found the clasp of my bra. "So fucking beautiful."
The bra disappeared, and his hands covered my breasts with a reverence that made my chest tight with something beyond arousal. His thumbs found my nipples, already hard and aching, and the gentle pressure made me gasp. But gentle wasn't enough anymore. I needed more, needed everything, needed him.
My fingers found his waistband, fumbling with the button of his linen pants with an urgency that would have been embarrassing if I could think beyond the need pounding through my veins.
He helped, shoving the pants down along with his boxers, and then he was naked in front of me and my brain completely short-circuited.
His cock. Jesus Christ, his cock. Long and thick and perfectly shaped, already leaking precum that caught the light filtering through the windows.
I'd felt him this morning through fabric, but seeing him—the reality of him—made my pussy throb with anticipation and just a hint of trepidation.
He was bigger than I'd imagined, and I'd imagined a lot.
"Like what you see?" There was amusement in his voice, but also vulnerability, like my opinion actually mattered.
"You're—" I reached out, wrapping my fingers around him the way I had this morning, but now with nothing between us. His skin was silk over steel, hot and perfect in my hand. "You're perfect."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob, then his fingers were hooking into my shorts, pulling them down along with my panties in one desperate motion.
I stepped out of them, kicked them away, and then we were both naked, breathing hard, staring at each other like we'd discovered something impossible.
"I've wanted this," he said, voice breaking on the words. "God, Anya, I've wanted you since that first day.”
"Ivan," I whispered, and his name came out like a prayer.
"Every day since," he continued, pressing his forehead to mine. "Every fucking day, wanting you. Watching you settle into my space, into my life. Seeing you with Marina and Peanut, coloring at three AM, existing in my world like you belonged there. Because you do belong there. You belong with me."
My heart was trying to escape through my ribs, pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. This man—this brilliant, dangerous, carefully controlled man—was confessing to wanting me with a desperation that matched my own. The power of that, the perfect symmetry of mutual desire, made me brave.
"Then have me," I said, the words clear despite my shaking. "I'm right here. I'm yours. Have me."
The next thing I knew, Ivan was on his knees in front of me, and the sight of him there—this man who made grown men tremble—kneeling at my feet like I was something holy, broke something in me.
His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, fingertips tracing patterns that made my skin feel electric.
His gray eyes looked up at me, dilated black with want but still seeking permission, still making sure this was what I wanted.
As if I hadn't been dripping for him since this morning.
As if my pussy wasn't already clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
"Please," I whispered, my hands finding his hair, threading through the dark strands. "Ivan, please."
He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh first, gentle and reverent, and even that small contact made me gasp. Then his hands were spreading me wider, positioning me against the wall for support, and his breath ghosted over my pussy in a way that made my clit throb.
"So wet," he murmured, and his voice against my sensitive flesh sent vibrations through my entire core. "Already so ready for me."
The first touch of his tongue made my knees buckle. Only his hands on my hips and the wall at my back kept me upright as he licked a long, slow stripe from my entrance to my clit. The sound that tore from my throat wasn't human—it was pure animal need given voice.
He groaned against me, the vibration making everything clench, and then he was devouring me like a man who'd been denied water in the desert.
His tongue pushed inside me, fucking me with the same desperate rhythm he'd used to kiss my mouth, while his nose pressed against my clit in a pressure that made stars explode behind my eyelids.
I was already so close. The morning's interrupted pleasure, the spanking yesterday, the emotional intensity of the sensory session, the wild kiss just moments ago—everything had wound me so tight that I was balanced on the edge before he'd barely started.
My body had been primed for this, waiting for this, desperate for this.
"Ivan," I gasped, my fingers tightening in his hair. "I'm already—I can't—"
He pulled back just enough to look up at me, and his face—lips already swollen and glistening with my arousal—was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen.
"Then don't hold back," he said, voice wrecked. "Come for me, baby. Let me taste it."
His mouth returned to my pussy with renewed focus, tongue circling my clit with the same precision he applied to everything else.
But this wasn't clinical or calculated—this was hungry, desperate, a man consuming what he'd been starved for.
He sucked my clit between his lips, gentle pressure that made my thighs shake, and that was all it took.
The orgasm hit like lightning striking water, spreading out in waves that seemed to touch every nerve ending simultaneously.
My back arched off the wall, my hands fisted in his hair hard enough that it had to hurt, and I screamed.
Actually screamed, the sound echoing off the villa's walls as my pussy clenched and pulsed and gushed against his eager mouth.
He didn't stop. Didn't even slow down. His tongue worked me through every pulse, every clench, drawing out the pleasure until I was sobbing from the intensity.
My legs gave out completely, and only his hands holding my hips kept me from sliding down the wall into a puddle of post-orgasmic uselessness.
"So perfect," he murmured against my oversensitive flesh, pressing gentle kisses to my inner thighs as the aftershocks rolled through me. "The way you come apart for me. The sounds you make. The way you taste."
I was shaking, my entire body one exposed nerve, when he finally stood. His face was wet with me, and the sight of my arousal on his lips, his chin, made my pussy clench despite having just come harder than ever before in my life.
"Come here," he said softly, gathering me against his chest when my legs wobbled. His cock pressed against my stomach, still hard, still leaking, but he seemed in no rush now. Like making me come had been the only priority.
I pulled his face down to mine, needing to kiss him, needing that connection.
The taste of myself on his tongue should have been strange, maybe embarrassing, but instead it was intoxicating.
This was us mixed together, my arousal and his hunger, proof of what we did to each other.
I licked into his mouth, chasing the flavor, and his groan vibrated through both our bodies.
"You taste like mine," he said against my lips when we finally broke apart to breathe. "Like everything mine."