Chapter 9 The First Surrender #2
Not her cunt. Not yet. Her stomach. The soft flesh she hid under high-waisted skirts.
The curve Dmitri had mocked. I kissed it like it was holy.
Like it was a church and I was the sinner who had finally found his way inside.
I spoke Russian against her skin. Words she didn't understand. Words I barely understood myself.
"Ты моя," I said. You are mine. "Ты моя." You are mine.
Then my hands were on her skirt. Pulling it up.
Bunching it around her waist. I found her underwear.
White cotton. Practical. The kind of garment a woman buys when she has stopped trying to be seen.
I hooked my fingers in the waistband and dragged them down her thighs.
She stepped out of them, shaking, her hands pressed against the glass behind her.
I looked at her.
Really looked.
The lights of the city painted her in gold and shadow. She was wet. I could see her hating that she was wet. See her hating that my gaze on her made her ache. Her body didn't care who I was. Only that I was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth starving for.
I spread her with my thumbs.
Her clit was swollen. Exposed. I blew on it. A stream of cool air that made her hips jerk forward. Then I leaned in and licked her. One long, slow stroke from the bottom to the top, ending with the flat of my tongue pressed hard against her clit.
Her head fell back. Hit the glass. She didn't feel it.
I didn't tease. I didn't build slowly. I attacked her like she was territory I was claiming with my mouth.
Sucking her clit with a relentless rhythm.
Flicking my tongue over the sensitive bundle.
Groaning against her flesh because she tasted better than anything I had ever consumed, and the sound vibrated through her.
I felt it. In the way her knees buckled.
In the way her hand found my hair and gripped.
Not pulling me closer. Not pushing me away. Just holding on.
"Please," she gasped. The word torn out of her. She didn't know what she was begging for. For me to stop. For me to never stop. For me to kill her or save her or fuck her until she forgot her own name.
I looked up at her. My mouth glistening.
"Not yet," I said. "First, you come on my tongue. Then you come on my fingers. Then you come on my cock. And by the time I'm finished with you, Maeve, you won't remember what it felt like to be his."
I went back. Sucking harder. My hands gripping her ass, holding her in place while she bucked against my face.
The orgasm hit her like a wall collapsing.
She screamed. Actually screamed. Her fingers clawed at the glass behind her.
Her thighs clamped around my head. I didn't stop.
I licked her through it, drawing out every spasm, every shudder, every broken cry until she was limp and shaking and sobbing against the window.
She said something. Not English. Not French. Gaeilge. Words I couldn't understand, spoken to a ceiling she couldn't see, and the not-understanding drove me harder because I wanted to own that too. Every word. Every sound. Every syllable of the language she kept locked in the room I couldn't enter.
I was entering now.
When I stood, my face was still wet with her.
I didn't wipe it away. I stripped. Jacket.
Shirt. Belt. She watched. Her eyes tracking the tattoos beneath the Tom Ford.
The stars on my shoulders. The cathedral across my ribs.
Her gaze caught on the scar across my left knuckles.
Lingered. I let her look. Let her see the man beneath the cufflinks.
I unbuckled the belt.
The sound was loud in the quiet room. Metallic. Final.
My cock was thick and hard, the tip already wet. I didn't touch myself. Just let her look. Let her see what she did to me. What her fear did to me. What her curves did to me. What the thought of breaking her and keeping her did to me.
I stepped closer. Gripped her chin. Tilted her face up.
"Open," I said. Softly. The softness more dangerous than any shout.
She opened.
I pushed inside her mouth.
Slow at first. Just the tip. Letting her taste me.
Salt and steel and the musk of a man who took what he wanted.
She moaned around me. The vibration made me hiss, my hips jerking forward, pushing deeper.
She gagged. I pulled back. Then pushed in again.
Finding the rhythm. Teaching her throat to take me.
"Look at me," I ordered.
She looked. Tears streaming down her face. Not from sadness. From the sheer overwhelming reality of this. My cock filling her mouth. My hand controlling her head. My eyes watching every twitch of her face like I was memorizing her destruction.
"Good girl," I said. The words came out rougher than I intended. Cracked. "Such a good fucking girl. You take me so well. Better than he ever deserved."
I fucked her mouth with a steady, claiming rhythm that said mine with every thrust. My free hand cupped her breast. Pinched her nipple hard enough to make her squeal around my cock. The sound made me groan. Deep. Guttural. The first crack in my own controlled fa?ade.
"Touch yourself," I said. "I want to feel you moan on my cock while you play with your clit."
Her hand moved between her legs. She was soaked.
She found her clit and rubbed it in tight, desperate circles.
The pleasure building again, impossibly fast, a second wave rising on the heels of the first. I felt it.
Felt her moans vibrating around my shaft.
Felt her body tightening, her hips rocking, her fingers working herself while I used her mouth.
"That's it. Come for me. Come with my cock down your throat. Show me who owns you now."
She shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her, her throat convulsing, her whole body shuddering. My grip on her hair tightened to the point of pain. I thrust deep. Once. Twice. Then I pulled out. Not yet. Not there. Not when I needed to be inside her the first time I finished.
She collapsed forward. Her forehead hitting my thigh. My hand loosened in her hair, becoming something close to gentle. I stroked the tangled strands. Then I lifted her. Like she weighed nothing. Carried her to the bedroom.
I laid her on the bed. She was still wearing the ruined cardigan, the torn camisole, the bunched skirt. I was naked from the waist down, already hard again, harder, the kind of hard that doesn't diminish because the wanting doesn't diminish.
I climbed over her.
Spread her legs with my knees.
Positioned myself at her entrance.
"Look at me," I said.
She looked. No mask. No steel. No wall. Just Maeve. Bare. Terrified. Wanting.
I pushed inside.
No warning. No hesitation. One long, relentless thrust that filled her completely. Stretched her around me. Made her feel every inch of my possession in the place where words failed and only sensation remained.
She cried out. Her back arched off the mattress. I caught her hips. Pinned her down. Started to move.
I fucked her like I hated her.
Like I loved her.
Like there was no difference between the two.
Deep and punishing strokes that hit a place inside her that made her eyes roll back. The bed creaked. The headboard slammed the wall. She wrapped her legs around my waist. Dug her heels into my lower back. Pulling me deeper even as she sobbed my name.
"Viktor."
"Again."
"Viktor."
"Again."
"Viktor!"
I groaned. Lowered my head. Bit her shoulder. Sucked her nipple. My hand found hers. Pinned it above her head on the pillow. Our fingers locked. Not tenderly. Desperately. Two people drowning and using each other as flotation.
"You're so tight," I rasped against her ear. "So fucking tight and wet and perfect. Do you feel that? Do you feel how you fit me? How you were made for this? For me?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. She was coming again. Her pussy clamping down on my cock so hard I had to force my way through the spasms, groaning like a man being torn apart. Because I was. She was tearing me apart from the inside, this woman, this body, this cathedral I was finally praying in.
I followed her over.
My thrusts became erratic. Savage. Uncontrolled. I buried myself to the hilt and came with a sound that was surrender and conquest in the same breath. I felt myself pulse inside her. Felt the heat. Felt the moment where predator and prey became indistinguishable.
I didn't pull out.
I stayed inside her. Heavy. Possessive. My forehead pressed to hers. Our breath mingled. Sweat slicked our skin.
She was shaking. Not from cold. From the tremor that follows the collision of two things a person swore would never collide. Desire and disgust. Want and shame. The body saying yes while the mind says what have you done.
She turned her face away from me. Toward the window. Toward the city.
"Je me déteste," she whispered. I hate myself. To the glass. To Manhattan. To the version of herself that had just let a Bratva king inside her body while his brother's handprint was still on her throat.
I put my hand on her hip. Not gently. Possessively. The way you put your hand on something you've just claimed. Something you're not giving back.
"You hate yourself for responding," I said. Against the back of her neck. Against the auburn hair that smelled like coconut and sex and the salt of tears she'd stopped trying to hide. "You hate me more for knowing you would."
She didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
The shaking said it.
The staying said the rest.