Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
H is mouth is still hot on mine, his tongue demanding as he seals his promise against my lips.
I can feel the wild vibration of his chest against my own, his large hands still framing my face. It isn't just a kiss, it’s him putting a stamp on my skin, telling the ghosts of our fathers that they don't own a single millimeter of the girl in his arms.
And I lean into him. Yes, I belong to him.
"Upstairs," he growls against my mouth, his voice a low, rough edge.
He doesn't wait for me to answer as he hooks his arm under my thighs and lifts me, carrying me out of the dining room.
I wrap my legs around his waist, my face burying in the crook of his neck as he takes the stairs two at a time.
The house is quiet, the guards outside probably still breathing sighs of relief that they didn't have to clean up our fathers' blood today.
We reach our suite, and he kicks the doors shut behind us. He doesn't lock them this time—he doesn't need to. The whole world knows better than to knock on this door right now.
He sets me down on my feet near the edge of the bed, but he doesn't let me go. He stands close, his chest heaving, his blue eyes dark and wild under his brow. He yanks his tie off with one hand, tossing it onto the floor, then starts unbuttoning his shirt with a quick, impatient aggression.
"Strip for me, Irina," he commands. His voice is a quiet, gravelly rasp that goes straight to my knees. "Slow. I want to watch you."
I look at him, my heart doing a hard, heavy thump.
I reach for the zipper of my black hoodie, my fingers trembling a little. I pull it down, letting the dark fabric part. I slide the sleeves off my arms and let the hoodie pool at my feet on the rug. I’m left in just my grey gym tank top and the tight black leggings, my skin flushed and hot.
"The rest of it," Mikhail murmurs, his shirt hanging open, revealing the serpents and stars on his chest.
I reach for the hem of the tank top, pulling it up and over my head.
I toss it aside, standing before him in just my sports bra and leggings.
My heart is beating so hard I’m sure he can see the pulse jumping in my throat.
I slide my thumbs under the elastic waistband of my leggings, pushing them down slowly, my gaze locked on his.
I step out of them, then reach behind my back to unhook the bra.
When the fabric falls away, I’m completely bare under his gaze. I feel a shiver run through me, but I don't try to cover myself. I stand tall, my chin up, letting him take in every inch of me, including the scar above my hip that we don't have to lie about anymore.
"On the bed," he growls, his hands already moving to his belt. "On your knees, wife. Face the headboard."
A hot, thick wave of desire rolls through my belly.
I don't argue. I climb onto the mattress, the silk sheet cool against my bare knees.
I crawl to the center of the bed and settle onto my knees, my thighs parted, my hands resting on the dark wooden headboard.
I arch my back slightly, my rear tilted toward him, my head bowing as I wait for the weight of him.
I hear the rustle of his pants hitting the floor, the heavy tread of his feet on the mattress.
Mikhail climbs over me, his presence instantly swallowing the light in the room.
He grabs my hips from behind, his large, scarred fingers digging into the soft flesh of my waist with a force that makes me gasp.
He pulls me back until my rear is pressed flush against his thighs, his hard, thick cock rubbing against my cleft.
"You're shaking, Princess," he whispers in my ear, his hot breath making me shiver. "You're wet," he growls.
He reaches around my waist, his large hand sliding down my flat stomach, past my bush, to find my wetness.
He slides two fingers inside me, his thumb grinding against my clit with a ruthless, heavy pressure.
I let out a whimper, my head thudding slightly against the headboard as he stretches me, his fingers moving in a hard, rhythmic rhythm.
"Mikhail... please," I sob, my hips twitching against his hand.
"Not yet," he murmurs.
He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, and rubs the wetness over my clit, making me writhe. He leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck, biting down just hard enough to make me cry out. He sucks on the mark, his hand coming down to give my cheek a sharp, stinging slap.
The smack makes me gasp, my back arching, my bound-up tension finally breaking. It’s rough, it’s intense, but as his hands move over my skin, there’s a different kind of heat beneath the violence today. It feels like he’s trying to hold onto me, like he’s trying to squeeze the fear out of my bones.
He positions himself at my entrance. He’s massive, hot, and thick, the head of him stretching me before he’s even inside. He grabs my jaw from behind, tilting my head back so I’m forced to look at him over my shoulder.
"Tell me you're mine, Irina," he growls.
"I'm yours," I gasp, my fingers clawing at the wooden headboard. "Mikhail, please. I'm yours."
He drives himself inside me in one deep, powerful thrust.
I let out a broken scream, my body lifting off the mattress as he fills me to the hilt. The fullness of him is dizzying, a sharp, beautiful ache that makes my whole body tremble. He stays there for a second, buried deep, his chest heaving against my back, his breath ragged in my ear.
"Mine," he rasps, his hands coming down to grip my thighs, forcing them wider.
He starts to move. It’s a relentless, heavy pounding from behind, his hips slamming against my rear with a force that rattles the headboard against the wall.
I’m sobbing into the pillows, my hands straining against the wood as he drives himself into me over and over.
Every thrust is deep, hitting my G-spot with a clinical, intense precision that makes my vision blur.
"You feel so good, wife," he pants, his teeth biting my shoulder. "So tight. So wet."
"Mikhail... harder... please, harder," I beg, my stubbornness entirely gone, replaced by a desperate need to be consumed by him.
He thrusts into me with a brutal, snapping rhythm, the sound of skin hitting skin loud in the quiet room.
I can feel the sweat dripping from his chest onto my back, his body a punishing weight that keeps me locked to the bed.
It’s rough, it’s dominant, but beneath the aggression, there is a deep, aching tenderness.
He’s holding me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go, his fingers leaving marks on my skin that feel like promises.
I’m close. I’m so close I can barely breathe, my muscles tightening around him, my head moving from side to side on the sheet.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a rough growl.
I turn my head, my eyes wide and dark as I look at him over my shoulder. He’s sweating, his face a mask of intense desire, his blue eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, absolute possession.
"Come for me, Irina," he rasps.
The tension snaps. My climax hits me like a wave of fire, my body convulsing around him, my throat raw from screaming his name.
Mikhail lets out a loud, guttural growl, his body tensing as he thrusts into me one last, deep time, spilling his heat inside me in a long, powerful rush that leaves us both shaking.
He collapses over my back, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic, satisfied rhythm against my shoulder blades. He doesn't pull out. He stays there, wrapped around me, his hands sliding down to interlock with my fingers on the headboard.
Mikhail eventually pulls out with a soft, wet sigh and rolls onto his back, pulling me with him. I rest my head on his chest, my hand coming down to trace the serpents on his skin, my fingers silent and comfortable.
He reaches down, his fingers gently tracing the silver scar on my hip. He doesn't say anything, but the gesture is softer than any words.
"He's a dead man," Mikhail says quietly, his voice a low vibration against my cheek.
I look up at him. "Who?"
"Boris," Mikhail says, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "If he thinks he can still use you to control me, then he is more foolish than either of us thought. "
I lean my head back against his chest, the warmth of his skin a shield against the cold reality of the war we’re in.
For seven years, I’ve been fighting this battle alone in the dark.
As I feel his arms lock around my waist, pulling me close, I realize that the monster in my bed is the only one who can actually help me win.
Two hours later, the bedroom is dark, the late-afternoon shadows stretching across the rug.
I’m sitting at the edge of the bed, dressed in a clean black sweater and dark jeans, my boots laced tight. The burner phone on the nightstand buzzes.
St. Jude’s Pier. Thirty minutes. Aris.
My heart leaps into my throat. I grab the phone, my fingers typing out a quick confirmation before I slide it into my pocket. I stand up, ready to slip out of the room, but as I turn toward the door, I freeze.
Mikhail is standing in the doorway of the closet. He’s dressed in his black suit again, his tie pulled neat, his expression completely unreadable. He’s been watching me.
"Where are you going?" he asks. His voice is a quiet, flat rasp.
"To meet Aris," I say, my voice steady. "He just texted."
Mikhail walks toward me, his boots slow and heavy on the hardwood. He stops inches away, his presence instantly swallowing the space.
"I'm going with you," he says.
"No,” I push back, my stubbornness flaring. "Aris is skittish. If he sees the Madman of the Morozov family standing on the pier, he’ll run before I can even get the address. I need to go alone."
"I don't care if he’s skittish," Mikhail growls, his hand coming up to grab my wrist, his grip tight and warm. "I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not with Boris’s men crawling through the city, and certainly not when it comes to your safety."
"I can handle myself," I snap. "I’ve been doing this for seven years."
"You were alone for seven years," he says, his blue eyes flashing with a jagged, wild energy. "You're not alone anymore. We’re going together, wife. Or we’re not going at all."