Chapter 10
Willow
"Of course."
My ears rang. Before I could even process it, he grabbed my wrist and hauled me into him.
The world tipped.
Next thing I knew, he had me pinned on the bed.
When my brain finally caught up, my back had already sunk into soft cushions. His shadow poured over me, blotting out the warm amber ceiling light, leaving only a thin halo of pale gold along the edge of his shoulders.
The bite of whiskey crashed into my lungs, warm and buzzed, threaded with that leather-notes-from-body-heat smell, like pinewood that had just burned down by a fireplace in the dead of winter.
"Artyom."
I said his name.
It was weird.
My heart had been hammering, and my whole body had gone loose, like I'd stepped into sun-warmed mud and didn't even want to pull free.
Was it the alcohol?
I looked up. In those dark gray eyes, I saw my own face reflected back at me, brows relaxed, lips curved like I was actually happy. I'd never seen myself like that. Like a flower that had finally found spring and was just waiting to open.
I lifted my arms and looped them around his neck.
My fingertips brushed the short hair at the nape of his neck. It was rough, a little prickly.
"Artyom—"
I said it again.
This time he didn't let me finish. His mouth came down with a force that didn't leave room for no, grinding over my lips like he meant to shove the rest of my sentence back down my throat.
The taste of liquor bloomed between us, warm and dizzy, mixed with that pinewood scent on his skin, wrapping me up until there was nothing else.
His palm slid down the side of my waist. Even through my clothes, I felt the heat of him, seeping through fabric, sinking under my skin, spreading deeper.
I shivered, fingers tangling harder into his hair.
He pulled back just a fraction, his nose brushing mine. "Wanna play rough?"
I froze for a beat. Alcohol and heartbeat slammed through my veins, my thoughts still lagging behind. He chuckled low and bit my earlobe.
"Quiet means yes."
His voice came out rough, and then he grabbed his tie and tied it over my eyes.
I felt like fruit in his hands, skin getting peeled back slowly, exposed and soft underneath.
His mouth worked down my neck, inch by inch.
Sucking. Biting.
I tipped my head back and breathed hard. Blind like that, all I could do was claw at the sheets under me.
His fingers slowly drifted downward, teasing my clit. Light. I arched my back hard. The sensation was so strange—nothing like when I touched myself in secret. It was a softening, tingling numbness that seemed to seep out from deep between my bones.
Right when I thought it couldn't get any sharper, he pushed in. At first it was only a shallow test, but he didn't stay gentle. He drove deeper, intent, like he was done pretending.
I bit my lip, trying not to make a sound, but he dragged against that soft, sensitive spot on purpose.
"Ah—"
The sound ripped out of me.
Like he'd caught me with my hand in the cookie jar, he went after it like a man possessed.
"Feel good?" he murmured right by my ear, his breath sweeping over the edge of it.
My whole body shook harder. I could only nod.
He laughed under his breath and pushed me further.
I felt like I was floating in clouds, like I'd been standing on cotton, my body turning to water, helpless but safe in his hands as he carried me higher and higher.
"Artyom..."
His name slipped out of me without permission.
"Good girl. Let it happen."
That line hit like a match to a fuse. The wave surged up from deep inside and drowned everything. Sight was gone under the tie. Sound got swallowed by my pulse. All that was left was touch, burning.
The pleasure was too full, too much, like it was about to spill over. It tangled with the lingering buzz of whiskey and soaked me in hot, heavy air until I couldn't lift a single finger.
And then I heard it.
A zipper.
Metal teeth sliding apart, slow and unmistakable in the quiet room.
My breath caught.
I still hadn't recovered, still floating in the aftershocks, when something hard pressed against me, right where I was most sensitive. I tensed on instinct, a helpless little inhale turning sharp in my throat.
"Wait—" I started, not even sure what I meant.
He didn't wait.
He drove in with one clean, ruthless thrust, like he'd already decided my body could take him and he'd been right.
My head snapped back into the pillow. A shocked cry tore out of me, loud and raw.
"Fuck," I gasped, legs trembling.
His hand clamped on my hip, holding me down, holding me open. "There she is," he said, voice dark with satisfaction. "That sound."
I could barely think. The tie stole the room from me, and all I had left was him. His weight. His heat. The way he filled every inch of space in my head with the rhythm he set.
He didn't give me time to adjust, not really. He rolled his hips and started moving, deep and hard, the bed answering with each drive. It was big, overwhelming, a pace that made my thoughts stutter and my body chase after him like it had been starving.
"Artyom," I choked, clinging to his shoulders.
He leaned down, mouth grazing my jaw. "Say it again."
My throat worked. "Artyom."
"Good." He thrust harder, like the name fed him. "You took me like you'd been waiting all damn day."
I tried to shake my head, humiliated by how true it felt, by how my body kept meeting him even when my brain screamed to slow down. "I—"
He cut me off with another punishing stroke that ripped the rest of my sentence into a moan.
He said quietly, "You're soaking."
His fingers slid up my ribs, under my top, cupping my breast with a rough tenderness that made me arch. He pinched just enough to sting.
I made a strangled sound. "Artyom—"
"Tell me what you want." His mouth pressed to my ear, teeth scraping the lobe. "Tell me."
I swallowed, mortified. The words stuck. I didn't want to give him that. I didn't want to admit I'd needed this, needed him, needed the way he took control like the world outside didn't exist.
His hips never slowed.
"Come on," he murmured. "Use your words."
"I want you," I admitted, voice shaking. "I want your big, fat cock."
"That's my girl." He kissed the side of my neck, then bit down, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to make me gasp. "You want to be fucked senseless."
He thrust again, deep and merciless, and I felt my body betray me, clenching around him like it agreed.
He groaned. "You're the one saying yes."
I shook under him, pleasure coiling again, faster than I expected after the last release. It wasn't fair. It was too much, too soon, my nerves still lit up and sensitive, every slam of his body into mine sparking brighter.
My hands scrabbled at his back, nails digging through his shirt. "Artyom, I can't—"
"You can," he said, like it was a promise. "You will. I'll make sure of it."
He shifted, dragging me with him. The mattress dipped as he moved us, and suddenly his hand was on my shoulder, turning me onto my side.
"On your stomach," he ordered, voice calm like he was telling me to breathe.
I hesitated, muscles trembling.
His palm slid down my spine in a steady stroke, not gentle but grounding. "Trust me."
My body answered before my pride could. I rolled, face pressed into the pillow, the tie still cutting me off from the world. Cool air kissed my skin where my clothes had ridden up. I shivered.
He pulled my hips up, positioning me. The sheet bunched under my fingers as I gripped it like it could keep me from flying apart.
"You're gonna take it deeper like this," he said. "You understand?"
I nodded, breath shaking.
"Words."
"Yes," I whispered. "I'll take it all."
"That's it." He crowded in behind me, his hand spreading my hip, setting my angle. I felt him press against me again, slow this time, deliberate, teasing at the edge until I was whining into the pillow.
"Artyom," I begged, voice muffled.
He slid in from behind with a steady push, filling me in a way that punched the air out of my lungs. I gasped, fingers curling tight.
"Jesus," I breathed.
He rested his chest against my back for a second, letting me feel the weight of him, the heat of him, his breath at my neck. Then he started moving again, and the new angle made everything sharper, meaner, like he'd found a switch inside me and flipped it.
His hand tangled in my hair and pulled my head back just enough to expose my throat. "You're made for this," he said, voice thick. "That ass. That pussy. All that sweetness."
He groaned, a sound that went straight through me. His hand slid around my waist, fingers finding me again, rubbing in tight circles that made my knees threaten to give out.
I cried out, helpless. "Oh my God—"
"Yeah," he said, almost smug. "Right there. That's where you fall apart."
The room narrowed to the sound of skin against skin, the creak of the bed, my own ragged breathing.
I felt it building again, too fast, too big. My stomach tightened. My thighs shook. I couldn't see, couldn't predict him, couldn't brace for the way he changed the rhythm just to steal my balance.
"Artyom," I panted. "I'm... I'm close."
He slowed for half a heartbeat, just long enough to make me whimper, then drove harder. "You were gonna come when I said."
A desperate sob tore out of me. "Please."
He laughed softly. "That's better. Begging suits you."
I hated that it did.
I hated that my body clenched at the words, that my hips tried to push back into him, chasing him, wanting more.
His hand disappeared for a second. I heard the soft snap of leather.
The first strike landed across my ass, sharp and loud, a sting that shot heat through me. I yelped, startled, then gasped again when the sting melted into something filthy and thrilling.
"Artyom!" My voice cracked, half protest, half need.
His palm smoothed over the spot like an apology that wasn't one. "Take it."
He struck again, a little harder. The sting bloomed. I cried out, and my body clenched around him so tight he cursed.
"Fuck," he groaned. "You like that."
He smacked me a third time, then held my hip steady and drove into me with a force that made my eyes water under the tie. "Say it," he demanded. "Say you like it."
"I like it," I admitted, voice shaking. "I like it. Just... please don't stop."
He kissed my shoulder, rough and sweet. "That's my good girl."
He kept thrusting, deep and relentless, punctuating it with another slap when I started to drift, keeping me right on the edge. Every sting made the pleasure spike, made my body jump and then melt.
"Louder," he told me. "Let me hear you."
"I need you," I cried, voice breaking, pride gone. "I need you so bad."
"That's it," he said, almost tender. "Take what you need."
My body finally gave in. The release hit hard, rolling through me in waves that made my legs shake and my throat go hoarse. I sobbed into the pillow, helpless, wrecked, still blind, still feeling him driving through the aftershocks like he wanted to mark the moment into my bones.
He pulled me up against him, holding me tight as he kept moving, chasing his own end. His breathing got rough, the rhythm turning jagged.
"Willow," he said, like my name tasted dangerous. "Fuck. You're perfect."
I shook, barely able to breathe. "Artyom..."
He thrust a few more times, then went still, pressed hard against me, his grip bruising on my hips as he finished with a low, broken sound in my ear.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
All I heard was our breathing, the distant hum of the city outside, the tie still tight across my eyes.
He finally loosened his hold, palm smoothing down my side like he was bringing me back. "You okay?" he asked, voice quieter now.
I swallowed, throat raw, body heavy and used in the best and worst way. "Yeah," I whispered. "I'm okay."
He kissed my shoulder again, softer this time. "Good."