Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kirill
I hadn't planned on coming back so soon.
The meeting with Michael was supposed to clear my head.
Instead, I spent thirty minutes alone in the back corner of a private lounge, waiting for the bastard who never bothered to show. When he finally texted to say he couldn't make it, I headed back to the penthouse, irritated and more on edge than when I'd left.
Before leaving, I'd spent some time securing Milana's phone, making sure it couldn't be traced once she started using it again.
I still had it with me when I got back. The apartment was quiet, and when I didn't see her anywhere, I assumed she was in her room.
I figured I'd drop the phone off before heading to mine.
Of all the things I'd expected to find when I pushed open her bedroom door, it sure as hell wasn't Milana sprawled across the sheets completely naked, legs parted, whispering my––that name like a filthy prayer while her fingers sank deep into her glistening, dripping pussy, while a buzzing toy pressed hard against her swollen clit.
“I said to keep going,” I growl.
I watch her resume moving her fingers, slower now, shy under the weight of my stare. The vibrator continues its relentless buzz against her swollen clit, making her hips twitch.
Fuck. The sight of her like this, spread open, dripping, hits me like a drug. My cock strains painfully against my pants, throbbing with the need to replace her fingers and claim what’s mine.
“Good girl,” I murmur, stepping further into the room. “Look at you. So fucking wet. That pretty little pussy is dripping for me, isn’t it?”
A needy whimper escapes her lips. My filthy words clearly send another rush of heat through her body.
“Deeper,” I order, my voice dropping low. “Fuck yourself harder with those fingers. Imagine it’s my cock stretching you open.”
She moans, obeying instantly. Her hips roll greedily as she pushes her fingers deeper inside herself. I can see the desperate need written all over her face, she is aching for me.
I stop at the edge of the bed, towering over her. “That’s it. Such a needy little thing. You were thinking about me, weren’t you? Touching that greedy cunt while you thought about me.”
“Yes…” Her admission comes out broken and breathless.
I walk over to her closet and reach into her suitcase and pull out the sheer black lace lingerie set I’d mocked back in her dorm, the one with the tiny thong and barely-there bra. I toss it onto the bed beside her.
I’ve wanted to see her in this set since the moment I first laid eyes on it in her dorm. The thought of wrapping her body in something so delicate and filthy has haunted me for the whole day.
This is reckless, I know. But I’m here now, standing over her while she’s soaked and trembling, so I might as well indulge my fantasy.
“Put it on. Now. I want to see you in it while you come.”
Her hands shake as she sets the toy aside for a moment and slips into the lingerie. The delicate lace scrapes teasingly over her sensitive nipples, and the thong disappears between her soaked folds.
Perfection. She looks like sin wrapped in lace, made to be ruined by me.
“Beautiful,” I growl, drinking in the sight. “Now spread those legs wider and fuck yourself again. Use the toy on your clit while you finger that tight pussy.”
She obeys, lost in the heat of my stare and my commands. The rose vibrator presses back against her clit as she thrusts two fingers inside herself faster, moaning openly now.
“Look at me,” I demand. “Eyes on me while you fall apart.”
“Ilya…” Her voice breaks on that name like a plea.
Fuck. The sound hits me straight in the gut. What I’d give to hear her scream my real name, while she shatters around my cock instead.
“Come for me, princess. Let me watch you soak that pretty lace.”
Milana
The orgasm hits me like a freight train, harder and sharper than anything I’ve ever felt alone. I cry out his name, back arching off the bed, thighs shaking violently as pleasure rips through every inch of me.
My walls clench hard around my fingers, wetness coating my hand and the lace thong.
Ilya reaches down, takes my slick hand, and brings my glistening fingers to his mouth. He sucks them clean, his warm tongue swirling, eyes never leaving mine. A deep, satisfied hum vibrates against my skin.
“You taste exactly like I imagined,” he murmurs.
Then, just like that, he releases my hand, turns around, and walks out of the room without another word. The door clicks shut behind him.
What the hell? Why would he just leave?
For a second I consider getting up and going after him. But no. That would make me look desperate. Pathetic.
I’m Milana Morozov. I don’t chase men.
I pull the covers over myself, still wearing the soaking lace lingerie, and close my eyes.
But sleep doesn’t come easily. All I can think about is Ilya, his voice, his eyes, the way he sucked my fingers like he was starving for me.
And how badly I wish he had stayed.
For the next couple of days, we avoid each other like the plague.
At least, he avoids me. I barely catch glimpses of him around the penthouse. He’s clearly here, I hear the occasional door, the low murmur of his voice on phone calls.
But the moment I enter a room, he finds a reason to leave. Does he regret what happened in my room?
God, I can’t stop thinking about it. The way he stood there watching me, voice low and filthy as he told me exactly how to touch myself. The way he made me put on that sheer black lace set.
And then… the way he took my slick fingers into his mouth and sucked them clean with that deep, satisfied hum.
Every single night since, when I lie in bed and slide my hand between my thighs, it’s his mouth I imagine. Not on my fingers.
Licking, sucking, devouring me. The fantasy is so vivid it leaves me gasping and frustrated, even after I come. I’ve never wanted a man’s mouth on me so badly in my life.
I’m slowly losing my mind.
Maybe I should be grateful he’s avoiding me. I have no idea how I’d react if I actually came face-to-face with him right now. Every time I close my eyes, he’s there. In my dreams. In my fantasies. Everywhere.
I still cook for both of us every day. It’s not like I can make food for myself and ignore him completely. That would feel petty. So, I always make extra.
When I come back later, his plate is always gone and the dishes are washed and put away.
Cooking, classes, and my studying are the only things keeping me sane right now.
I’m in the kitchen making breakfast. Scrambled eggs with spinach and feta, avocado toast with chili flakes, and fresh fruit on the side.
The smell fills the apartment and comforts me a little. I plate my own portion and leave his in the warmer.
I sit at the island, eating slowly while going over my plans for the day. I have a couple of pro bono cases I’m working on, trauma documentation for abuse survivors, and an online class later.
Since Ilya finally gave me back my phone with heavy encryption and anti-tracking software installed, I’ve been able to talk to Calina and my sisters-in-law, but it’s not the same.
I miss our brunches, our laughter, the way we could spend time together. Now everything feels heavy. Serious. Calina is still in the city with Maxim, refusing to hide, but Ilya won’t let me go see her. “Not safe,” he says.
So here I am. Under luxurious house arrest with a man who sets my body on fire and then pretends I don’t exist.
I finish eating, clean my dishes, and head to my bedroom to prepare for my classes. As I settle at the desk with my laptop, I can’t help but wonder where he is right now. Is he thinking of me too?
Get a grip, Milana. Focus.
After my last online class ends, I close my laptop and stretch, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness.
I open my secure video call platform and log into the victim advocacy center’s portal. Today I have a session with Maria, my newest and most difficult case.
She joins the call a few minutes late, looking exhausted. Her face is pale, dark circles under her eyes, and she keeps glancing over her shoulder like she expects someone to walk in at any moment.
“Hi Maria,” I say gently, offering her a warm smile. “How are you feeling today?”
She hesitates, fingers twisting the sleeve of her oversized hoodie. “Not great. I wish this nightmare would end already.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my voice steady and professional. “Remember, one day at a time. Can you tell me what happened?”
Maria’s voice trembles as she speaks. She met her ex, Damien, three years ago. At first he was charming, flowers, attention, promises of a better life.
Then he introduced her to drugs to “help her relax.” It started small, but soon she was dependent, and he used it to control her completely.
When she tried to leave, he became violent. And threatened to expose her addiction to her family. He’d disappear for weeks, then show up high and furious, convinced she was cheating on him.
And then, she finally got the courage to leave him.
“I thought I was finally free,” she had whispered to me on our last call, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“I got clean. I moved to a new place. But last week he was waiting outside my building. He said if I don’t come back to him, he’ll make sure I lose everything.
My job, my apartment… even my little sister. He knows where she goes to school.”
I listen to what has been going on in her life in the last few days carefully, taking notes while my chest aches for her. I document every detail, the patterns of coercion, the psychological manipulation, the threats.
This is what I’m good at: turning pain into records that can help build protection orders, support legal cases, and get these women the resources they need.
“You’re incredibly strong for getting clean and trying to rebuild your life,” I tell her softly when she finishes. “That took real courage. We’re going to document everything and get you connected with a shelter that has better security. We will get through this together, you will see.”
Ilya
I have always prided myself on control.