Chapter 22 - Trifon
Our hands stay joined across the console, her fingers warm and soft between mine. I can’t stop thinking about how she looked at Yuri and Irina’s table—relaxed, laughing, beautiful. She fit there, in that little piece of my past I’ve never shared with anyone.
And fuck me, it makes me want her even more.
And now all I can think about is how badly I want to pull her closer, to feel her body against mine, to lose myself in her and forget about the fragile nature of what we’re building.
She belongs in my world. The thought hits me like a bullet. Tonight proved it. She handled Yuri and Irina with the same grace she brings to everything. Even to me.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, her voice soft in the darkness.
“They’ve never met any woman I’ve been with,” I admit. “You’re the first.”
I see her eyes widen. “Really? Why me?”
Because you might be carrying my child. Because you might leave. Because I’m terrified of how much I need you to stay.
But I don’t say any of that.
“Because you’re important,” I say instead. “Mother of my child, aren’t you?”
She bites her lower lip and looks away. “I am.”
A silence falls over us again, and however much I might want to stay here in this moment, she needs to get some rest.
“It’s getting late,” I say. She nods as I move out of the car and walk over to her side to help her out.
When I finally walk her inside, my hand finds the small of her back instinctively. The hour is late, and the house is quiet; the staff have all gone to bed.
Tonight, we might as well be alone and pretend we’re the only two who live here.
I lead her upstairs, each step adding to the tension coiling between us. The hallway to her bedroom feels a mile long. When we finally reach her door, I stop, uncertain for the first time in years.
I should say goodnight. Walk away. She’s still recovering, still adjusting to the idea of carrying my child. Still processing her family’s betrayal. The last thing she needs is me, complicating things further with desire she might not welcome.
But she pauses, too, turning to face me. The air around us changes, growing thick and charged.
“Thank you again for tonight,” she whispers. “It meant more than you know.”
But then her eyes lift to mine—and they’re saying something else entirely. I could blame what happens next on hormones, on heightened emotions. But the truth is that I don’t need a reason when it’s all I’ve been thinking about.
She rises slightly on her toes, hand coming up to rest against my chest, and that’s when all thought leaves the building. I look into her eyes, the prettiest green I’ve ever seen, until I’m swimming in that color, until I feel her press her lips to mine and lose all sight.
The kiss is gentle, almost tentative.
A question.
An invitation.
My control shatters like glass.
I crowd her against the doorframe, one hand sliding into her hair, the other at her waist, pulling her against me because she’s the only thing that can quench the fire in my nerves. She dissolves into a moan as my tongue slides against hers.
God, I’ve been starving and I didn’t even know.
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in through my shirt as she arches into me. The feel of her body against mine—soft curves pressed to hard planes—sends fire racing through my veins.
“Let’s get inside,” I growl against her mouth, fumbling for the doorknob. “Now.”
We stumble through the doorway, neither willing to break the kiss. As soon as we’re inside, I kick the door shut and press her back against it, pinning her with my body.
Her hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my chest, tugging at my shirt. Mine aren’t much better, sliding down her sides, tracing the curve of her hip, cupping her ass to pull her harder against me.
“I want you,” she breathes against my mouth. “I’ve been thinking about it all night.”
“You’re telling me,” I ghost out an answer and kiss her deeper, harder, trying to pour every ounce of how I feel through touch alone.
“You have no idea,” I mutter, moving to her neck, dragging my teeth lightly over the sensitive skin. “The things I want to do to you.”
She shudders, head falling back against the door with a soft thud. “How about less talk and more walk?”
“Sassy, are we?” I grin.
My hands find the zipper of her dress, dragging it down slowly, pushing the straps off her shoulders, until the dress pools at her feet, leaving her hourglass figure standing like a shadow against the moonlight.
She stands before me in nothing but lace underwear, her body a masterpiece of curves and valleys. The gentle swell of her stomach, the baby it carries, makes my heart clench.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, reverent.
She’s not as shy this time, reaching for the buttons of my shirt with steady hands.
I let her undress me, savoring the brush of her fingers against my skin as she pushes my shirt from my shoulders. When her hands move to my belt, I have to close my eyes briefly, fighting for control.
“Slow down,” I warn her, catching her wrists. “Or this will be over too quickly.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Maybe I don’t want slow.”
I lean in, nipping at her lower lip. “But I do,” I murmur. “I want to take my time with you. Make you fall apart over and over.”
I scoop her into my arms and carry her to the bed, laying her down carefully among the pillows. She looks up at me, eyes dark with desire, lips swollen from my kisses, and I’m struck again by how fucking lucky I am that she’s here, that she wants this, wants me.
I strip off the rest of my clothes before joining her on the bed, kneeling between her parted legs. Her eyes roam over my body, lingering on the scars that map my history, on the tattoos that tell my story, on the evidence of how much I want her.
“Come here,” she whispers, reaching for me.
But I have other plans. I push her back against the pillows, trailing kisses down her throat, across her collarbones, to the swell of her breasts. I take my time, worshipping every inch of her skin, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her arch beneath me.
When I finally move lower, tracing the gentle curve of her stomach with my tongue, her breathing turns ragged. I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties, dragging them slowly down her legs.
“Trifon,” she pleads, voice thick with need.
I spread her thighs wider, settling between them. “Yulia,” I murmur against her inner thigh, letting my breath tease her. “Let me make you feel good.”
The first touch of my fingers against her center makes her hips buck. She’s already wet, already desperate for me. I stroke her slowly, circling her clit, dipping inside her entrance, building a rhythm that has her clutching at the sheets.
“Please,” she whimpers.
I slip one finger inside her, then another, feeling her tight heat grip me. “Like this?”
Her answer is a broken moan as I curl my fingers, finding that spot inside her I know she loves. I work her steadily, watching her face as pleasure builds, as her cheeks flush and her breath catches.
“Let go,” I urge her, pressing my thumb against her clit as my fingers move inside her. “I want to watch you come apart.”
She does, with a cry that might be my name, her body clenching around my fingers, back arching off the bed. I work her through it, drawing out every aftershock, every tremor.
When she finally goes limp, eyes dazed and chest heaving, I climb up her body, positioning myself between her thighs. The head of my cock nudges against her entrance, slick and ready from her orgasm.
“Yes,” she breathes, hands finding my shoulders. “Now, Trifon. I need you.”
I push inside her slowly, giving her time to adjust to my size. The sensation nearly undoes me—tight, wet heat enveloping me inch by inch. I have to grit my teeth against the urge to thrust hard and fast.
“Fuck,” I groan when I’m finally seated to the hilt. “You feel incredible.”
Her legs wrap around my waist, drawing me even deeper. “Move,” she urges.
I withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, setting a slow, deep pace that has us both gasping for breath. Each thrust feels better than the last, building a pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
I brace myself above her, watching her face as I move inside her. Her eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed with pleasure. She’s never looked more beautiful than she does right now, coming undone beneath me.
“Stay with me,” I find myself saying, the words falling from my lips before I can stop them. “Don’t leave.”
Her eyes widen slightly, focusing on mine. “Trifon—”
I silence her with a kiss, suddenly afraid of her answer, knowing she and I? We’re talking about two entirely different things. But for now, I want to pretend she understood what I asked of her. I just want this moment, this connection, this illusion that she might choose me.
I increase my pace, driving into her harder, deeper, like I can somehow make her mine through sheer force of will. Her nails dig into my back, marking me, claiming me just as thoroughly as I’m claiming her.
The tension builds between us, hot and urgent. I slip a hand between our bodies, finding her clit again, circling it in time with my thrusts. I want to feel her come around me, want to push her over the edge before I follow.
“That’s it,” I coax as her breathing grows ragged. “Let go. Come for me again.”
Her body tightens around me, her inner walls clenching rhythmically as she cries out. The sensation pushes me past the point of no return. My vision narrows, pleasure coiling tight at the base of my spine before exploding outward.
I bury my face in her neck as I come. The orgasm tears through me like wildfire, starting deep in my core and radiating outward until every nerve ending sings with release.
I feel it everywhere—in my fingertips clutching her hips, in my toes curling against the sheets, in the thundering of my heart against my ribs.