Pov Aj
Warm air thaws my face as the door shuts behind us. My body almost gives out from the sudden shift in temperature.
The lobby is empty.
He strides to the counter and slaps his hand down on a small bell. The sharp ding echoes through the space, bouncing off cracked, yellowed wallpaper.
No one answers.
For a second, it seems abandoned. Then a woman appears from the back, eyes flicking between us. She says something in Russian. Wolff doesn’t answer. He pulls out a stack of cash and slides it across the counter.
Her eyes widen.
She takes it without hesitation and hands over a key. Her gaze flicks to me. Then back to him.
Wolff jerks his chin toward the stairs.
“Move.”
The room is small and outdated. Brown and beige cover everything, and random mismatched animal paintings hang on the peeling walls. There’s a single queen-size bed. A dresser, a small table, and two wooden chairs.
I stop in the middle of it, arms wrapped tight around myself.
“You’re insane.”
He drops the bags on the dresser and moves to the bed.
“Stop bitching. You lived, solnyshko.” He exhales heavily and sits, bending to untie his boots.
“Solnyshko?” I glare at him. “You’ve said that before. What does it even mean?”
“Brat.” He pulls off one boot, letting it hit the floor.
I frown. “That doesn’t sound like it means brat.”
“You don’t speak Russian.” He drops the other boot. “Go shower.” He doesn’t even look at me.
I stare at him for a second, my hands curling into fists, before I turn and storm into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. The crazy bastard almost got us killed—and he’s calling me a brat.
When I’m done showering, I step out and wrap a towel around myself. I glance at my reflection—
My hair hangs damp and limp. My skin is pale beneath the red. My eyes are rimmed in exhaustion. My lips are cracked and raw. Bruises still ring my throat, wrist, and ankles, but they are fading. The purple has given way to yellow and green. I press my fingers against them and swallow hard.
“There’s a shirt on the bed.” His deep voice makes me jump.
My gaze snaps to the door where he’s standing.
His eyes are locked on mine, that same unreadable expression on his face.
I don’t know how long he’s been watching me.
I open my mouth to say something, but stop myself, and push through the doorway.
He brushes past me into the bathroom.
I’m tempted to leave the shirt he laid out. Just wrap the towel around my body, slip under the blankets, and ignore him. But I know I’ll just be cold. Dropping the towel, I pull his t-shirt over my head. Then I step into the fresh pair of underwear he’d left out with the clothes.
I climb onto the bed, curling into a tight ball under the covers. When I hear the bathroom door open, I don’t look. I just pull the blankets higher and pretend to be asleep.
His footsteps move around the room. Drawers open and close. Then the mattress dips hard beside me.
My eyes snap open.
Wolff is lying on his back, arms tucked under his head, staring at the ceiling.
Shirtless. Sweatpants low on his hips, the sharp cut of his V-line disappearing beneath the waistband.
The soft lamplight catches on the hard ridges of his abs.
Scars and tattoos cover his chest and shoulders—dark inked designs wrapping his right arm.
The Sovereign brand is bold above his heart.
His body is massive—legs hanging off the end of the bed, taking up most of the space.
He doesn’t say a word. His jaw is tight, like usual, the muscle ticking steadily. Heat rolls off him in waves, mixing with the faint scent of cheap soap and something earthy.
I can’t stop staring. The small scar slicing through his eyebrow. The way his abs tense with every slow breath. That deep, tempting V leading down to where the sweatpants barely cling to his hips.
My fingers twitch under the blanket. I want to reach out. Trace every ridge. Feel the heat of his skin under my fingertips.
I force myself to turn over, pulling the covers tight over my shoulder.
A moment later, the lamp clicks off, bathing the room in darkness.
The memories creep in the second the light dies.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push them back, but they come anyway—rough hands, laughter, the feeling of being used until I went numb. My throat tightens. Breathing turns shallow. A chill sinks into my bones.
I shiver hard and start to sit up.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cold. I was going to—”
The bed creaks. A heavy arm snakes around my waist and yanks me backward. My back collides with his solid chest, burning hot. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. He’s so big. So warm. A wall of heat wraps around me as his arm tightens, pulling me flush against him.
“I… I thought you hated being touched.”
“I do.” His voice is almost angry. “Now stop talking and go the fuck to sleep.”
I want to ask why he’s doing this. Why now. But I stay quiet, trying to relax into the heat of his body.
At first, we’re both rigid—his arm stiff around my waist, every muscle locked. But slowly, minute by minute, his hold loosens just a fraction. His breathing evens out. I press back against his chest, sinking deeper into the warmth. His grip tightens again on my waist.
It feels good. It’s been so long since anyone touched me without hurting me. Without making me want to crawl out of my own skin. An ache starts low between my legs. I try to ignore it. Try to focus on the steady beat of his heart against my back.
It doesn’t work.
His body is too close.
And for the first time in months, I don’t feel like I’m about to break apart. I hate how much I want him to pull me even closer.
His fingers rest dangerously low on my stomach, palm flat against the thin fabric of his shirt I’m wearing. My skin tingles where he touches me.
I shift, just barely, pressing my ass back against him.
“AJ,” he says darkly, like a warning.
I feel him harden instantly, thick and heavy against my ass cheek. The size of him makes my breath catch.
Fuck.
I’m a mess. Wet. Aching. And I don’t even care anymore.
I bite my bottom lip, gnawing on the flesh. I need this. I need something to drown out the memories, the shame, the fact that I’m going home to be used all over again. I need him to make me forget, even if it’s just for a few minutes.
“What?” leaves me on a breathy exhale.
His large hand slides lower, fingers digging into my hip with bruising force.
“Stop. Moving.” His lips are right against my ear, breath hot on my neck. Another shiver ripples through me as his beard scrapes my skin.
I should listen.
But I arch back slowly, pressing my ass against the full, rigid length of his cock. The thin layers between us do nothing to hide how hard he is.
His fingers curl into a fist against my stomach, tugging at the t-shirt like he’s trying to hold on to his sanity.
His lips brush the shell of my ear as he leans in closer.
“Do you know what a man like me will do to a girl like you?”
The deep gravel in his voice makes my pussy throb.
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
“No.” His grip turns almost painful. “You don’t.”
God, he feels massive behind me. If I just shifted my leg a little, angled my hips…he could push right inside me.
“Wolff…” I whimper.
The bed creaks as he shifts his weight, rolling me onto my back so he can look down at me. His face is inches from mine, closer than he’s been since the night he found me.
The memory flashes through my mind: his cock stretching me open, me fighting him on stage, our cum leaking down my thighs. My stomach swoops and twists with shame and want at the same time.
I don’t want to remember that.
I just want him to ruin me tonight.
I’m trembling with need. So wet it’s embarrassing.
Then he moves.
One second, he’s looking at me. The next, he’s sliding down my body like he’s done fighting it.
He doesn’t speak.
He just hooks my thighs over his broad shoulders, spreads me open with both hands, and buries his face between my legs.
The first long drag of his tongue makes me choke on air. I open my mouth to try to speak.
“Shut your fucking mouth while I’m eating this pussy.”
His growl vibrates against my clit, and my back arches off the bed. He doesn’t wait for a response. He dives back in. Long, rough strokes of his tongue from my entrance up to my clit, then back down, pushing inside me like he’s trying to fuck me with it.
Two thick fingers shove into me without warning, curling against that spot that makes my thighs shake violently around his head. He sucks my clit into his mouth, and the wet sounds fill the dark room—his tongue, his fingers, the low groan that rumbles from his chest when I get even wetter.
Moaning, I reach down, fingers threading into his hair.
He immediately grabs my wrist, pins it to the mattress beside my hip, and keeps devouring me. Like he’s punishing me for touching him. Eating me like he owns me.
My hips try to buck, but his forearm across my lower stomach holds me down. He sucks harder on my clit, fingers pumping faster, curling with every stroke until my legs start trembling uncontrollably.
“Fuck…Wolff…”
I’m close. So fucking close.
His grip on my thigh bruises as he sucks my clit again, tongue flicking fast and perfect.
I detonate—back bowing, a cry ripping out of me. My pussy clenches and pulses around his fingers, soaking his face and hand while he keeps licking me through it, dragging every last shudder from my body.
Even after I start to come down, he doesn’t stop. He slows to lazy licks, like he’s savoring the taste of me.
I’m panting, wrecked, thighs still twitching from aftershocks.
“Please…Wolff… Please, fuck me. I need you inside me.”
For a second, he just stares up into my eyes, breathing hard through his nose, his mouth and chin glistening with my release. Then his voice comes out rough.
“You need a safeword.”
A…safeword?
That doesn’t make sense. Sovereigns don’t give safewords. Servants can’t say no. You take what they give you.
“I don’t… I don’t understand. I’m—”