Chapter 25 Raina
RAINA
Sergei finally moves away from the glass, his cum dripping down my thighs, mixing with the shower water.
He holds my face, eyes serious, unreadable, then kisses me slow and deep.
His hand closes around mine. “Not done with you yet,” he says, and I feel the hunger rising again, sharp and low. I nod and follow him.
He kills the water, grabs a towel, but doesn’t bother drying either of us.
He just drags me out of the shower, wet feet slapping the floor, until we cross the marble and spill onto the bedroom rug.
He’s hard again already. One look at him—silver hair damp, muscles wet and tensed, heady eyes—and my body answers. I want him everywhere, in every way.
We fall onto the bed, bodies still slick. He pins me to the silk sheets, kissing me like he wants to bruise my mouth. My legs open around him, toes curling into the fabric. His hand slides up my inner thigh, presses his thumb at my entrance, shoves two fingers inside, slow and deep, making me gasp.
“Still so fucking wet,” he says, low and pleased. “Who made you that wet, Raina?”
“You did,” I breathe, arching as he curls his fingers.
“And no one else ever will,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers out so I feel empty. “Hands and knees.”
I roll over without hesitating, palms flat against the sheets, knees dug into the mattress.
He is behind me instantly. His hands slide up my back, trace my spine, then push my shoulders down until my face sinks into the pillows.
I stay with my back curved, ass high. He doesn’t make me wait.
He thrusts in with a filthy grunt, filling me to the hilt.
He grips my hips, holding them steady, and starts slow, grinding deep, making sure I feel every inch. His cock drags along my walls, still sensitive from the shower. I moan, voice muffled by the pillow. “Sergei… fuck.”
“That’s it,” he says, gripping tighter, picking up pace. “You wanna come like this?”
“Yes.”
“What do you say?”
“Please,” I gasp, pressing back onto him. “Please, fuck me.”
He laughs, dark and satisfied. “Better. Keep going.”
His thrusts get harder, faster. The sound of our bodies colliding fills the room, wet and obscene.
I’m shaking, wanting more. He pulls out suddenly, and before I can protest, he turns me onto my back again and slides back inside, deeper this time, folding my legs up against my chest, locking his arms around them to keep me open.
His face hovers over mine. “Look at me,” he says. “I want your eyes on mine when I make you scream.”
I hold his gaze, raw and breathless. “I’ll scream,” I whisper. “I’ll scream until they drag us apart.”
“God, I fucking love you.” He pumps faster, harder, hitting me perfectly.
I feel it building again, tight and hot.
He feels it too. He shifts his grip, uses his forearm to pin my thighs further while his other hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit.
He rubs tight circles, perfect pressure.
I moan loud this time, not caring. Heat flashes through me.
“Come,” he growls. “Now.”
I do. I break. Pleasure erupts, white-hot. My body arches impossibly. I scream his name, gripping his arms so hard my nails dig in deep. My cunt convulses around him, clenching, shaking. He keeps pounding, thrusts relentless, dragging out every last spasm.
He doesn’t stop even when I collapse, limp and shuddering.
He withdraws only long enough to flip me again—this time onto my side.
He slides in from behind, hooking one leg over his hip, spoon-fucking me deep and slow while his hand slides over my stomach and up to squeeze my breast. His lips find my ear.
“What do you want now?” he asks, voice barely above a breath.
“You, always you,” I pant. “Want you to ruin me. Want to be sore in the morning.”
He bites my shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. “You will be.”
He starts slow and deep, fucking me with deliberate strokes, hitting all the right spots, his free hand pinching my nipple, rolling it. We pant together, sweat and water drying on our skins. He speeds up. I rock with him, greedy for every thrust. He whispers filthy things in my ear.
“You want me to breed you right here?”
“Yes.” My answer is immediate, breathless. “Fill me. Make me wear it.”
“You want to feel me dripping out tomorrow when you walk?”
“Fuck, yes.”
His hand moves from my breast to my chin, turning my face to his so he can kiss me sideways, fucked up and perfect. He pounds harder, thumb rubbing my clit again. I come a third time, a sudden sharp release that leaves me shaking violently. He grabs my waist and slams in faster, breath ragged.
“How many times can you give me?” he rasps, eyes burning into mine. “How many can you take for me?”
“As many as you want,” I breathe, almost sobbing. “Take what you want from me.”
He stills for a moment, chest heaving. Then he pulls out and flips me onto my stomach. He straddles me, straddles my thighs, lifts my hips. I feel the head of his cock pressing again, harder than before, throbbing.
“Hold on,” he warns, voice rough. He thrusts into me with a savage pace, hips pounding my ass.
I scream into the mattress, muffling it, grabbing fistfuls of sheets.
He fucks me flat, keeping me pinned by the small of my back, watching himself disappear into me.
His balls slap my clit in a frantic rhythm, overstimulating me, pushing me past what I thought I could take. My legs shake, but he keeps me pinned.
“Sergei, I can’t—”
“You can and you will,” he snarls, eyes flashing. “Give me one more and I’ll fill you.”
“Oh God,” I gasp as a fourth orgasm rips through me.
It’s messy, uncontrollable. I squirt over his cock, soaking him, soaking the sheets.
He groans, deep and feral. His hips move faster, seeking release.
He pulls out, flips me again, drags me up so I’m on my knees, spreads my legs wide, and thrusts back in.
“Look at me,” he orders again, gripping my face. “This is the last one.” He slams into me, every muscle rigid. “Say it. Say you want me to come in you.”
“I want it,” I sob, grabbing his shoulders. “Please—fill me, Sergei. Please.”
He loses it. He thrusts home, holds there. His face twists, eyes squeezing shut. I feel the first hot pulse flood inside me. He groans, deep and possessive, as rope after rope spills into my cunt. He grinds deeper, pushing it in, making sure I feel every drop.
“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead falling to mine. “Fuck, I love filling you.”
“I love being filled by you,” I whisper back, legs trembling. “Don’t ever stop.”
His hips keep rolling lazily as the last pulses run through us both. He finally stills, kisses me slow, keeps me wrapped in his arms while he softens inside me. He pulls out, and our combined fluids drip down my thighs, onto the ruined sheets. He looks at me like he just conquered a city.
“We’re not done,” he says quietly. “Not tonight, not tomorrow. I’m going to keep you like this until you can’t stand.”
“Good,” I whisper, smiling. “That’s all I want.”
He rolls onto his back and drags me with him, straddling his lap again. His cock is still slick and half-hard, resting heavy against my pussy. He slides his thumb over my clit, slow, almost lazy.
“You’re not asleep yet,” he says quietly. His voice is raw silk, frayed with lust.
“Neither are you,” I murmur, letting my hips sway forward.
His hand grips my hair and tugs. “Ride me again. Slow this time. I want to feel every inch.”
I do exactly that. I lower myself onto him, inch by inch, until he fills me whole.
I move slow, rolling my hips, letting the feeling crest with no rush.
He holds my waist, eyes locked to mine, breathing with me.
We rock like that for a long, breathless stretch, no harsh thrusts, just relentless full-friction grind.
It burns in the best possible way. I moan quietly.
He groans with me. This becomes a slow-motion kind of intimacy.
He keeps whispering filth—“You’re addictive.
I can’t stop.” “You’re perfect for me.” “Stay on me forever”—and the words sink into my skin as deep as his cock.
The world narrows to the sounds of our bodies, the slick slide, the broken breaths.
He strokes my clit, careful circles, and warmth shivers up my spine.
When I come again, it’s silent and drawn-out, just a long, shaking exhale that leaves me trembling on top of him.
He doesn’t stop. He rolls us suddenly, pinning me under him again, hooking one leg over his shoulder, pushing deep.
He fucks me through the aftershocks, grinds his pelvis to my clit, works me past exhaustion.
I clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging down his back. He kisses me until I can’t think.
We shift again—he’s behind me, spooning, cock sliding in slick and easy.
He holds me tight, one arm under my head, the other gripping my breast. He thrusts shallow and steady, whispering filthy promises against my neck.
We lie like that, him rolling his hips up, me pushing back, the rhythm hypnotic.
Water and sweat dry on our skin. We’re breathing hard, but I can feel him close again.
“Come with me this time,” he murmurs.
I nod, barely able to speak, and he angles deeper, rubbing my clit with his knuckles until the pleasure spikes again.
We crest together, bodies pressed tight, his final release pouring hot inside me, mine spilling right along with it.
He groans into my hair. I whimper into the pillow. He doesn’t let go.
We keep moving even after that—slow, lazy thrusts—until the motions get softer, until eventually the exhaustion catches us both.
I roll to face him. He pulls me close, keeps his softening cock still inside me like a seal, arms wrapping around my waist. My body aches deliciously everywhere.
I can feel his heartbeat pounding against mine.
Hours pass like that, until the corners of dawn begin to show.
Sergei lies beside me, one hand on my stomach, the other brushing my hair back as our breathing slows. My legs still shake from everything he did to me, but he is already shifting back into the man who hunts.
I curl into him. “Tell me the plan.”
He nods once, serious now. “We start with what we know. Ilya didn’t abandon the cottage.”
I lift my head. “How do you know he didn’t?”
“He left too much behind,” Sergei answers. “He moved you fast because you told me too much. But he didn’t have time to finish. He always comes back for his core hardware. That cottage holds his main tools. He needs the drives. He needs the detonator link. He needs the server keys.”
I breathe out slowly. “So that’s how you know he’ll return.”
“That, and the logs,” he says. “Andrei pulled access patterns from old routes. Ilya circles his safehouses every twelve to sixteen hours after a move. He checks the site, collects what he needs, wipes it, then burns it if needed. He follows the same cycle every time. It’s habit.
He can’t break it. He thinks it hides him. ”
I tilt closer. “So we know the window.”
“Yes,” Sergei says. “He moved you three hours before I reached the house. That means he will return tonight.”
I feel heat rise under my ribs. “Then we go tonight.”
He smiles, slow and dark. “Exactly.”
I lay a hand on his chest. “Tell me the rest.”
He shifts, propping himself on one elbow. His voice stays low and steady.
“We keep the house looking normal, the guards tight, and all patterns the same. Any sudden changes will set him off, since Ilya will be watching. He’s got my own men reporting to him, probably telling him how panicked I am in my own walls.”
We keep guards tight. We keep patterns the same. No sudden changes. Ilya watches everything. He expects me to be panicking inside these walls.”
“And?” I ask.
“We leave under the cover of that pattern,” he says. “Vlad stays here. He walks the halls like usual. Lights stay on. Phones stay active. Cameras show normal movement. Anyone watching will think I’m guarding you and Nadia.”
“But we won’t be here,” I say.
“No,” he says. “We’ll be on the road with my best team.”
I nod once. “Good.”
He threads his fingers through mine, gripping tightly. “When we reach the lake, we don’t rush the house. We take the cellar entrance. No lights. No sound. That’s the only point Ilya won’t trap, because he uses it himself. He thinks no one remembers it.”
“He’s wrong,” I whisper.
“He’s wrong,” Sergei repeats. “We enter quietly, set positions, and wait. He always steps into the main room first. He checks the table. He checks the bed. He checks the drives. He checks the bomb. He does it in that order. That habit will kill him.”
I breathe out. “And we take him?”
Sergei nods. I squeeze his hand. “And Nadia?”
“She stays with my aunt,” Sergei says. “Safe. Away from all of this.”
The thought steadies me. “Good.”
He leans closer. “We end him, Raina. We finish this. No running. No hiding. No fear.”
I touch his jaw. “You’re sure about the timing?”
“Yes,” he says. “He’s going to return fast after moving a prisoner, since he’ll need to wipe the space before the trail cools. In his head, coming back quickly covers his tracks. We know it does the opposite.”
I swallow. “So he’ll be there.”
Sergei’s hand tightens on my waist. “He’ll be there. And I’ll be there waiting.”
“Then the plan is airtight,” I whisper.
“It is,” he says. “And after that, our life returns. No more running. No more screens. No more songs used as warnings.”
His voice softens. “Just us.”
I lean forward and kiss him, slow and sure. He answers it with a kiss that feels like a vow.
When we pull apart, he brushes my cheek. “You’re shaking again.”
“Not fear,” I say, and he smiles.
He rolls me under him, his body warm, his mouth trailing down my neck. The tension between us sparks again, sharp and alive.
“We have a few hours before we leave,” he murmurs against my skin.
I grip his shoulders. “Then use them.”
He does.