Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Ruthie
I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on in my entire life.
Not once. Not even close.
I’ve never even thought about getting spanked by a guy, not seriously.
But with Vadka? The way he looked at me.
The authority in his voice. The rough slap of his palm against my skin?
It sent me straight into overdrive. I’m soaked.
Drenched. So fucking wet, I’m two seconds away from crawling into that bed, yanking off these clothes, and rubbing one out just to take the edge off.
And the worst part? He knew. That smug bastard knew exactly what he was doing to me. Every time he gets bossy. Every time I push back. Every time he calls me “little brat,” a thrill zips through me like a live wire. My whole body hums with it. I shiver just thinking about it.
I want him. Desperately.
Would it be so terrible if it was just casual? Just… comfort. Skin against skin. Who could blame us? We’ve both been through so much.
What the fuck am I even thinking?
Oh my god.
But here I am, in his house. In his space. More turned on than I’ve ever been with any man who’s ever touched me. And I’ve never—never—had sex with someone I actually cared about. Not once. I don’t even know what that feels like.
And I want to.
God, I want to.
But I have to be here for Luka. I have to be his auntie. His anchor. I can’t blur the lines and become his daddy’s girlfriend.
…Right?
I shake my head, forcing the fantasy away. I check my messages. One from Zoya.
Zoya
Are you in the house? I heard there was drama at the restaurant.
So that’s what we’re calling it now? Drama? Oh, I’m definitely going to give him shit for that.
I’m fine. He’s getting dressed, so I’m gonna sneak in and delete the message from her phone.
Zoya
Good. He hasn’t seen it yet?
I don’t think so…?
Do I really know? No. Fuck it.
I have to plot a way to get into his room. He had her phone—in his hand, in his pockets—and I know exactly what has to happen next. It's essential that I get that phone because if he sees that stupid fucking text I sent…
God. But why am I in such denial? Would it really be the end of the world if he saw it? If anything, the way he touched me in that room just now made me wonder… Maybe it’s not just me. Maybe I’m not the only one feeling this. Maybe he feels it too. Does he?
But what if he does want me? What if something starts—anything, even just a moment—and then… what if he realizes he doesn’t? I’m not Mariah. I never was, and I never will be.
I make my way to the living room. Every corner of the space holds a memory of my sister—echoes of her life still lingering here—and maybe that’s it.
Maybe that’s the thread I need to hold onto.
Vadka and Luka, the reminders that even when someone we love is gone, the world keeps spinning.
Life doesn’t stop. And maybe, just maybe, I have to remember that there’s always—always—something to be grateful for.
This is a small house. My sister and Vadka made sure Luka was always nearby.
His little room is right off the kitchen, so he could play close, walk out to help her cook, or just be around.
It was cozy, intimate, thoughtful. My sister loved decorating—obsessed over her space—and she made it beautiful.
A soft white and beige aesthetic, clean lines, and gentle textures.
And Luka’s room? That was the one place she let chaos bloom.
She let him make a mess, let his imagination spill everywhere.
I peek in and see his artwork on the dresser. Pink smudges. A crooked jug. Portraits taped to the walls, messy, bold, and full of life.
It’s my fault he has a bitch for a nanny, and I need to fix this. He deserves better—so much better—than this. Of course he does.
I strain to hear Vadka in the other room. Maybe he’s gone to his office or the kitchen. But of course—he’s in his bedroom. What if he’s looking at her phone right now? Shit.
I move quietly down the hall toward his room, every sound amplified. My heart beats like a warning in my chest. Then—I see it. A thin sliver of light glowing from under the office door. He’s not in the bedroom. My heart stalls and then pounds harder. I need to move—now.
I push open the bedroom door fast. The scent hits me first. No trace of my sister anymore. None of her perfume, her lotion, her presence. Just Vadka. The quiet weight of his cologne. The clean scent of his body wash. The steam still clinging faintly to the room from his shower.
Even the bed’s different. Dark navy sheets, a blue coverlet—neutral, masculine. Housekeepers come a few times a month, and it looks like they’ve made small changes. The room doesn’t feel like Vadka and Mariah’s anymore. It’s just his now.
I scan the room quickly. The phone’s not on the dresser. My gaze flicks to the nightstand—and there it is. A small black phone, plugged in, charging. He touched it. He’s charging it. Shit. The chances he saw that text… I rush over, grab it, unlock the screen, and delete the message.
"What are you doing in my room?"
I scream. The phone slips from my hand and hits the floor with a sharp crack. No. No. I drop to my knees, hands trembling, and stare at the screen. A long, jagged crack splits the glass. A sob catches in my throat.
"I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—"
"It’s fine," he says, his voice low. "It’s just a crack. We can fix it."
"I was just trying—" I’m out of breath, the words caught somewhere between shame and panic.
And then he’s there. Right in front of me. His forehead touches mine, and his hands come up, framing my face.
"It's okay, Ruthie."
And I wonder why he's saying it's okay—what exactly he thinks I need comfort for. His voice is relaxed, almost soothing, and he leans in, kissing my temple gently like I’m something precious. Then I realize—he’s only wearing a pair of boxers.
And those boxers? They’re doing absolutely nothing to hide his erection.
He’s hard as fuck. Bare-chested, sexy as sin.
Tattoos trail along his arms, crawl up his neck, and stretch across the broad, solid plane of his chest—ink on muscle, power in every inch of him.
I reach out with a tentative hand, not even sure why, only that I have to.
Like I don’t have a choice. I press my palm flat to the front of his stomach—the lower part of his belly—and he feels like everything I imagined—warm, solid, strong.
Masculine in a way that shakes something loose inside me.
A sound rises from my throat, low and raw, escaping before I can stop it.
I’m aware—painfully aware—of my own heartbeat.
Of the throbbing ache building between my legs.
Of how my emotions are flipping, swinging wildly—from grief to loneliness to burning, undeniable need.
Then he’s pulling me toward him, his hands shifting from cradling my face to tangling into my hair.
He tilts my head back, bending my mouth to his without a single word.
And when his lips press to mine, something electric explodes in me.
Every nerve lights up. I drop out of my head and straight into my body—fully, completely—like I never have before.
His mouth takes mine, and his tongue? It slants over mine, commanding and hot.
I lick him back, needing the taste of him, and he makes this low, masculine noise—half growl, half groan—that floods me with want.
His arm traces down the length of my back, smooth and sure, then cups my ass in one big, possessive hand.
Awareness fires through my body again, thick and sharp.
He kisses me like a man starving—and I’m the only thing that can save him. There’s pain in it, yes. But underneath that pain, a glimmer of hope. Like this could mean something. Like maybe we both still can.
“My sister died,” I whisper, my voice catching. “But we didn’t die with her. We’re still here. We’re still alive. Don’t we deserve to live?”
I’m crying—just a little—and I know I am because my chest feels cracked open and raw, and our kiss, the intimacy of it, blends with something deeper, something breaking inside me. He pulls back, only barely, burying his face in my hair. His voice is rough, a sound like shattered glass.
“Ruthie. God, Ruthie. I read your texts to your sister. I thought it was just me. I thought I was the only one. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you felt it too. I thought you—”
His voice cuts off as if it’s physically painful to say more.
He just shakes his head, then suddenly he’s lifting me—his hands under my ass, his mouth grazing mine again.
He walks toward the bed like he can’t wait another second.
And honestly? Neither can I. I can’t think beyond this moment, beyond what I need—what I want. And I know it now. I want him.
He lays me on the bed. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “So fucking beautiful.”
“Take the shirt off, Ruthie,” he rasps, voice thick. “I want to see you.”
I hesitate, the fabric balled in my fist. But then he cups my face, holding my gaze with something so sincere, so reverent, it undoes me.
“Beautiful girl,” he whispers. “Can you trust me?”
I nod. I just know.
“Then let’s give this to each other,” he says quietly. “No one can touch me like you do. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t trust anyone else but you, Ruthie.”
I slip my T-shirt over my head. My breasts spill free, and his eyes darken.
His mouth closes over my nipple, and heat explodes low in my belly.
Need twists inside me, and I whimper. I brace myself against the bed as he licks, his tongue flattening against my nipple until it’s tight and aching.
Then he grazes it with his teeth while sliding his hand between my thighs, pressing the heel of his palm into the wet, swollen center of me.
One hand rolls a nipple while his mouth works the other, switching back and forth until I feel like I might scream.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growls. “And I want you.”
I run my hands along his arms—those powerful, inked arms—and for the first time, I don’t see the man who once loved my sister. I see the man who loves me. And somehow, impossibly, that makes all the difference.
He presses his face to my belly, breathing me in deep, then spreads my legs with his broad hands.
And when he licks me—fuck—I’ve never felt anything so good, so perfectly made to unravel me. I moan, my hand reaching instinctively for him—only for his palm to slam down on my thigh in warning.
“Put your hands by your sides,” he says in that same low, commanding tone. “There’s something you’re gonna learn, woman. I let you get away with your mouth. I let you be a little brat. But in here? Behind these doors? I am king. Do you understand that?”
“What if I say no?”
His eyes darken, lips curling into a slow smirk as he shakes his head with a low, dangerous chuckle. “Then I’ll have to teach you how to obey.”
“Is that what you need, little brat?” he asks, mouth brushing my belly, inhaling deeply as he parts my legs. “You need a lesson?”
He ends the sentence with a long, lazy lick to my clit, and my hips arch instinctively. I can’t help it. I whisper, “No, of course not. I’m a good girl.”
He licks me again, slower this time. “Then show me how good girls come,” he murmurs—a challenge, a dare. “Go ahead, angel. Come on my tongue. Let yourself go, baby.”
And then he’s devouring me, two fingers sliding into my slick heat, curling just right as his tongue torments my clit. I moan, reaching out before I even realize I’ve moved.
His hand smacks down hard across my thigh, his voice a dark warning between my legs. “I told you not to move those hands,” he growls. “If you want to come, you’ll do what I say. Understand me?”
“Yes,” I breathe out. My hands fall obediently back to my sides. I’ve never played a game like this before. But god—it’s making me burn.
He licks me again, his fingers pressing deeper, firmer. It’s perfect—so perfectly placed I could scream. I feel it building, that sweet, devastating pressure.
“Are you close, beautiful?” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Come on my tongue. I want to feel it. I want to taste you. Come for me.”
I fall over the edge, crashing into the kind of orgasm that rewrites reality.
My pussy clenches and pulses around nothing and everything, shaking with the force of it.
Earth-shattering. Bone-melting. The best of my life.
It’s so much I can’t breathe. I’m wrecked and weightless—and yet all I want is more of him. A primal, feral need coils inside me.
“I want you inside me,” I say, desperate now. “I’m on birth control. I trust you. I know you haven’t been with anyone. I need you.”
He shoves his boxers down and slides into me, thick and perfect, filling me to the brim.
Stretching me until I’m trembling, gasping, mindless.
Every thrust is a promise, every drag of his cock inside me a possession.
He moves like he owns me. Because in that moment—he does.
He fucks me until we’re both coming, and it’s everything.
Raw and real and emotional. The kind of sex that changes something inside you.
I wait for the guilt. I expect it. But it never comes.
I love him. I wanted to comfort him. And it felt right. It still does.
“Stay there,” he says again in that low, growling voice. “I’ll clean you up, baby.”
His hand is warm again, comforting. I’m half-asleep when he returns with the washcloth and carefully slides it between my thighs, wiping me down.
I make it to the bathroom, freshen up, but I’m still dazed, still spinning.
I feel high. Victorious. I’m not alone in this feeling.
He feels it too. But I need to get out of here—before the weight of what just happened hits.
Before consequences catch up with us. Still, I don’t regret a thing. Not a single thing.
He climbs into bed with me, so sexy it should be illegal, and murmurs, “Don’t say a word about regretting this.” His voice is rough, raw. “I don’t. And I don’t want to be a regret for you.”
But then, in a quieter moment, he says it differently: “I never slept so well as I did that night with you. You can stay, Ruthie. You don’t need to go to the guest room. Stay here with me. Let’s get some rest.”
And I know what he means. Not just physical rest but the kind of rest that seeps into your bones. The letting go of everything—worry, grief, the gnawing fear about what’s coming next.
"Yeah," I whisper, "let’s get some rest."
Even as I say it, my mind refuses to still, already bubbling with questions.
What did we just do? Where do we go from here?
What does this even mean? But the feel of his heavy arm draped across my waist settles me more than anything else could.
It makes my muscles soften, making me sink deeper into the mattress.
He falls asleep long before I do, his breathing heavy and even, his body a warm, solid line at my back.
And I find myself hoping—aching—that somewhere, somehow, Mariah will forgive me.