Callie
His breath is warm against my lips. That’s the only part of me that isn’t shaking. The thin layer of skin where we’re almost touching. My mind is a screaming mess. Don’t do this. Don’t want this. Run. Stay. He’s danger. He’s safety. None of it makes sense. None of it fits into any world I’ve known.
But when he says tell me not to… I can’t.
I don’t want to.
If these are the last moments of my life, if sunrise is a finish line I’ll never reach, then I want to feel something before I go. Something that isn’t fear or exhaustion or hopelessness.
Something that’s mine.
“You said you’ll decide what happens to me,” I breathe, the words ghosting over his mouth. “Maybe this time it’s my turn to decide.”
He stills. Completely. Like a predator sensing the shift when prey finally stops running.
My fingers move before I register the decision, sliding up his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him that last dangerous inch closer. His answering inhale is sharp, ragged, a crack in his armor I never considered I’d see.
His thumb traces my jaw in an intentional sweep that feels so solid and final that I know my life has just changed. The world narrows to that single line of contact, to the way my pulse surges beneath his touch. I tilt my chin, closing the final sliver of distance, and I kiss him.
Just a brush of lips, testing and terrified, but the effect is instant and catastrophic. He releases a sound deep in his chest, low and hungry, like he finally has permission to destroy every rule he’s ever lived by and he intends to do it in the most devastatingly starving manner possible.
His mouth claims mine back without hesitation, his hand sliding to the back of my neck as though he’s been waiting an entire lifetime to anchor me there. Heat punches through me, a shockwave of want that blinds out the fear and replaces it with something so fierce I nearly gasp.
This shouldn’t feel like salvation.
His other hand grips my hip, pulling me flush against him, and now I understand what he’d warned me about.
What I want… you can’t handle.
Only I want it too.
My fingers climb to the back of his neck, clutching and desperate. Only my desperation doesn’t scare him. He drinks it in. Answers it with his own. The kiss deepens, staking a claim I’m already too far gone to deny.
When he finally tears his mouth from mine, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath shuddering like he’s been starved of air until now.
“Dangerous,” he whispers, and I don’t know if he means me or him or what is about to happen between us.
My heart is pounding so hard my ribs ache. I don’t know where fear ends and desire begins. I don’t think he cares, his thumb is still stroking my lower lip like he’s memorizing every detail of the kiss we just shared.
He looks into my eyes, and I swear the ground shifts beneath me.
“You need to understand what this means before we go too far,” he says, but the words come out almost as grunts. Like it pains him to hold back from kissing me again.
“I don’t care,” I say, and it feels like a weight is lifted from me. “Whatever this means, I accept. Just don’t stop. Please.”
I let the sensation of his mouth on mine carry me away. I sink into the way his hand feels when it slides from the back of my neck to my shoulder, then my breast, which he squeezes hard enough to make me whimper into his mouth.
A low growl comes from him as his kiss turns hungrier, more demanding, and I meet it beat for beat.
He tears the T-shirt from me, the fabric stretching and ripping between his clenched fists before he pushes it from my shoulders and steps back.
“Callie,” he murmurs, breathless. I don’t cover myself up. I don’t feel like I need to when he is looking at me like I’m the answer to all of his desires. I slip out of the sweatpants and stand in front of him in just the gold panties of my uniform.
He groans as he crashes against me again, lifting me until my legs find their way around his waist like they were always meant to be there. I feel him hot and hard against my center and I moan as my panties moisten.
He doesn’t walk us to the bedroom. Two strides and my back hits the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, sixty floors above the Strip.
The city glitters behind me like spilled diamonds, but all I can feel is him, solid and unstoppable, pinning me there with his hips and the thick ridge of his cock grinding against the soaked scrap of fabric between my legs.
“Fuck,” he growls against my throat, teeth scraping the tendon that jumps under his tongue. “You’re so wet, krasótka. I can feel your heat on my cock through my clothes.”
He unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly, pulling out the thick length of him that is already beading pre-cum.
A breathless laugh tears out of me, half hysteria, half pure need. I try to wriggle away to make enough room to pull off my panties. “I need to take them off,” I pant, desperately pushing them away from me.
His eyes flash up to mine, silver gone almost black. “No. I’m going to ruin them, and then I’m going to ruin you.”
His words don’t catch me off guard. I believe every one of them.
I lean back against the window as his big hands fist the front of the panties and yank.
The delicate fabric shreds like tissue; the sound is obscene in the quiet penthouse.
Cool air kisses my core for half a heartbeat before his palm cups me possessively, two thick fingers sliding through my slick folds.
I cry out, head falling back against the glass, legs tightening around his waist. He doesn’t tease. He sinks those fingers deep inside me in one smooth thrust, curling, scissoring, stretching me open while his thumb finds my clit and circles with ruthless precision.
“Look at you,” he rasps, voice shredded. “Soaked for the man who was supposed to kill you tonight.”
The words detonate behind my ribs, molten and wrong and perfect. I roll my hips, fucking his fingers, chasing the pressure that’s already coiling viciously tight.
“More,” I pant. “Dariy—please—” my voice breaks on the words as pleasure begins to build.
He pulls his hand free and I shiver at the loss, but then the blunt, velvet head of his cock is right there, nudging my entrance, spreading me open.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He just watches my face as he pushes in with one long, merciless stroke that seats him to the hilt and punches the air from my lungs.
The stretch is exquisite and satisfying in itself. My fingers dig into the back of his neck, scrabble at his shirt, desperate for an anchor. He hisses, hips snapping once, hard, like he can’t help it.
“Hold on to me,” he orders, voice guttural and raw.
I do. Still lending back against the window, my hands gripping his shoulders, ankles locked at the small of his back, I meet his eyes and nod.
Then he starts to move.
Not gentle or slow. He fucks me against the slab of glass like the city needs to watch.
Like every neon light below us should know exactly who I belong to now.
Each thrust drives me up the window an inch, then drags me back down onto his cock.
The angle is perfectly brutal and relentless.
My spine arches, breasts begging for attention, and still, it’s not enough.
He dips his head and sucks one pebbled nipple into his mouth and I cry out as it sends a bolt of pleasure straight to my clit. The new angle is shallow and tormenting, my pussy chasing his cock, wanting it deeper.
“Harder,” I gasp, meeting his thrusts with my own desperate pace. He responds by opening his mouth wider over my breast and flicking his tongue in circles around the peak, pulling a shuddering moan from me.
He snarls something filthy in Russian and gives me what I beg for.
One arm bands under my ass, the other braces on the glass beside my head, and he pistons into me with a force that crushes me against the window at my back.
Pleasure coils tighter, sharper, until it’s a blade at the base of my spine.
His mouth returns to mine and we kiss messily as he presses me fully against the window keeping me upright as he fucks me relentlessly.
“I’m going to make you come,” he states in a fractured whisper, his teeth at my earlobe. “You’re going to come on my cock while the whole fucking city watches.”
I break.
The orgasm slams through me so hard my vision whites out. I scream his name, raw, broken and shameless, my body clamping down around him in pulsing waves. He groans like he’s dying, hips stuttering, driving impossibly deeper as he chases his own release.
He doesn’t pull out.
He buries himself to the root and comes with a guttural sound that vibrates through my bones, flooding me with heat. At the height of his orgasm he clenches his jaw, as if holding back the sounds he really wants to make, then on the final release, he lets out a shuddering breath.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers my trembling legs until my toes touch the floor, but he doesn’t let me go. He stays inside me, arms caging me to the glass, forehead pressed to mine.
“Mine,” he whispers again, softer this time, almost reverent.
I should feel ashamed. I should feel afraid.
I should feel every warning sign blaring inside me as loudly as they were before he dragged me into this world.
But all I feel is this low, humming need that curls through my spine like recognition.
Like my body knew him before my mind did.
Like some part of me has been waiting for a touch that strong, a voice that dark, a man that terrifying.
And that’s the part I can’t make sense of.
The part that scares me. Because I didn’t just want him in this moment, I wanted to be his.
Completely. And I don’t know how to come back from wanting something that impossible.