Chapter 5 #2
“No.” He stepped closer. “I don’t.”
The answer came immediately, no joke, no softening. She stared up at him and couldn’t think of a single clever response.
He reached up and brushed a loose curl from her face — careful, but nothing uncertain in his expression. “You have no idea how difficult it’s been.”
Her pulse jumped. She swallowed, looked at him another second. “Viktor.”
His name came out quieter than she intended.
His hand settled lightly against her jaw. For several moments neither of them moved, city lights glowing beyond the windows while silence settled in. Everything narrowed to the space between them — her own breathing, his, the tension that had followed them for months tightening with every second.
His gaze dropped to her mouth before returning to her eyes. The restraint was still there, but she could see the effort behind it now. The patience she’d mistaken for ease suddenly looked like discipline.
“You’re staring again,” she whispered.
“Yes. I am.”
The awareness became impossible to ignore. She felt her resolve slipping with every second in front of him, after months of pretending she could manage this.
Then she reached for him.
The decision happened before she could retreat behind another excuse. His hand slid to the back of her neck as he lowered his head, and months of tension finally broke. The kiss erased every interrupted moment, every conversation they’d been avoiding.
When they pulled apart, neither spoke right away.
She stayed close enough to feel the heat coming off him.
He looked down at her with an intensity that made her heart beat harder — nothing temporary in his expression, nothing uncertain either.
For the first time, she clearly saw the possessiveness hidden beneath all that patience.
“You look very pleased with yourself,” she said quietly.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I am.”
“That is incredibly annoying. You should know that.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Despite herself, she laughed. It faded fast when he stepped closer again, his hand at her waist, steady and possessive without turning forceful.
Neither of them seemed interested in returning to dinner conversation — the island, the dishes in the sink, the city outside the windows, all of it suddenly very far away.
He brushed his thumb lightly against her side, holding her gaze. “Come here,” he said quietly.
Her breath caught. She looked at him a second longer, then let him take her hand.
Without looking away from her, he turned toward the hallway leading deeper into the penthouse. She followed, unable to stop watching him as he guided her forward, the city lights disappearing behind them.
* * *
Viktor led her down the hallway, hand tight around hers, not rough but unyielding — the kind of grip that said he would never let go unless she tore herself free. And maybe not even then.
The air changed the second he opened the bedroom door. Not just the scent of him, though that hit her first — a clean, dark heat, like a storm tangled up with something richer, almost edible — but the way he watched her. Like he’d been waiting a lifetime.
He let go of her hand only to cup her jaw, thumb stroking her cheekbone. He kissed her slow at first, savoring, then slid his other hand to her lower back and pulled her in, crushed against his chest. Her bones felt hollow. She let him take, let him press her until her heels left the floor.
She wanted to be clever, wanted to say something sharp. But his mouth was on hers and her brain went static. He kissed her like he could fix every broken thing inside her. Like he wanted to.
He backed her up until her knees hit the bed. She sat, breathless, and he followed, crowding her space, bracing a hand on either side of her hips. She looked up. He looked down. For a second neither moved.
He was so close. Too close. Not close enough.
Josephine reached for his shirt, fingers fumbling the buttons, but he caught her wrists and pinned them behind her back. She gasped. He kissed her harder, teeth scraping her lower lip — a warning and a promise.
He let go only to drag her shirt up over her head, fabric catching at her shoulders before he yanked it free and tossed it aside.
She shivered, not from cold but from the way his eyes mapped every inch of skin.
He didn’t rush. Just looked, and looked, and looked, until she felt like a work of art he was cataloguing for some private collection.
He bent his head, mouth finding her collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing her skin. She arched into him, shameless. He found her breast, circled her nipple with his tongue, slow and deliberate, until she whimpered — then smiled against her and sucked hard enough to leave a mark.
She dug her nails into his shoulders. He didn’t flinch, just moved lower, mouth blazing a trail down her ribs, her stomach, pausing at the waistband of her leggings.
He looked up, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, waiting for her to say no. She didn’t. She lifted her hips instead. He peeled her leggings down slow, exposing her inch by inch. She was wet already. He saw. He definitely saw.
He knelt between her legs, hands on her thighs, spreading her wider. She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to. He dipped his head, licked her once, slow, tasting. She nearly came off the bed.
He laughed, low in his chest, and did it again. And again. Tongue relentless, mouth hot and greedy, fingers digging into her hips to keep her from squirming away. She tried to muffle the sounds, but he didn’t let her. He wanted to hear. Needed it.
He pressed her deeper into the mattress, tongue relentless. She was shaking, thighs clamped around his head, but he just held her open, fingers digging in, not letting her hide. Every flick of his tongue felt like a live wire. Every sound she made fed him, made him rougher, hungrier.
She almost sobbed his name. He groaned, low and dark, and sucked her clit hard enough to make her see white. Her hips jerked. He just pinned her harder, ate her like he’d starve if he stopped.
She shattered. Hard. Her whole body arched, toes curling, hands clawing at the sheets, at his hair, at anything she could grab. She came so hard she thought she might black out.
He didn’t stop, not right away — slowed, licked her through it, slow and almost gentle now, like he wanted to taste every last tremor. Only when she flinched, oversensitive, did he finally pull back.
She was wrecked. Couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark, jaw set, looking like he wanted to devour her all over again. Instead he crawled up her body, braced himself over her, kissed her hard. She tasted herself on his tongue.
She was still shaking. He liked that — she could feel it in the way he gripped her hip, possessive and careful at the same time. Like he wanted to mark her, but not break her.
She reached for him, found his belt, fumbled it open.
He covered her hand with his own, helped her, made quick work of it.
Jeans hit the floor. She wrapped her hand around him, the heat and weight of him shocking, almost too much.
He hissed, forehead pressed to hers, and for a second she felt him trembling too.
He lined up, head of his cock nudging against her, waiting. He always waited — like he needed her to say yes, even now, even after everything.
She hooked her leg around his waist, pulled him in.
He pushed inside, slow at first, inch by inch, and it hurt, but in a way that made her want more. She wanted to feel every bit of him. Wanted to be ruined by him.
He groaned her name, voice shredded, and bottomed out.
The stretch nearly undid her. She dug her nails into his back, left marks.
He liked that too. He started moving, slow at first, then harder, faster, losing his rhythm — braced his hands on either side of her head, caged her in, fucked her so deep she couldn’t think.
She broke again, raw and messy this time, sounds torn out of her as he drove her through it. He didn’t stop, not even when she begged. He pinned her hips down, took everything she gave and then more.
He came with a growl, buried his face against her neck, body shaking with the force of it.
He didn’t collapse, just held her, hand splayed over her ribs, thumb stroking lazy circles on her skin.
She couldn’t breathe, not really, not with him still inside her, still hard, still holding her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth.
She tried to speak, but her throat was raw. All she managed was a broken laugh, shaky and high. “You’re heavy.”
He didn’t move. Just pressed his forehead to hers, breath ragged. “You like it.”
She did. God, she really did. She didn’t bother lying.
He eased out of her, careful, slow, like he knew she’d flinch.
She did, hips twitching, the aftershocks still rolling through her.
He liked that too — she could feel it in the way his hands tightened on her waist, in the way his eyes mapped every inch of her face, searching for something he’d never say out loud.
She was a mess — hair wild, skin flushed, nail marks on his back and thighs. Her own body felt rattled apart and put back together wrong. She loved it, every ruined inch.
He rolled to his side, dragging her with him, tucking her into his chest like she belonged there. She didn’t fight it. Couldn’t have, even if she wanted to.
His heart hammered against her ear, brutal and steady. She listened, let it anchor her.
He stroked her spine, slow, almost absent, like he was soothing himself as much as her. “You’re shaking.”
“Yeah.” She tried to laugh again, but it caught in her chest, turned into something softer. “You wrecked me.”
He smiled against her temple. “Good.”
They lay tangled, sweat cooling, city lights bleeding through the windows. The room smelled like sex and skin, sharp and sweet and a little wild. She pressed her face to his neck, breathing him in.