Chapter 7 #3
“You left a perfectly good dance partner for me.”
“I left because I wanted to be with you.”
The words landed hard — not because they were dramatic, but because they were true. She wanted him. She chose him. And every day she seemed less afraid of admitting it.
He stepped closer. Not enough to touch — just enough to change her breathing. His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her gaze, and the reaction was immediate: her breath caught, her pulse fluttering visibly in her throat. He noticed every bit of it.
“Happy now?” she asked softly.
His gaze never left hers. “Very.”
The answer came low and certain, and a shiver moved through her — one that nearly shattered what remained of his restraint.
She swallowed; he watched the movement, watched her lips part slightly, watched her take a slow breath.
The awareness between them felt consuming now.
Heavy. Relentless. Impossible to ignore.
He opened the passenger door of his car and waited.
She moved closer before getting inside, close enough to feel his warmth, close enough to see exactly what was in his eyes, close enough that neither of them pretended anymore.
He looked down at her for several long seconds, then a slow smile appeared.
“Get in the car, Josephine.”
The command was quiet. The satisfaction behind it wasn’t. This time she obeyed without argument.
* * *
He slid in behind the wheel, hands steady, jaw set. The car smelled like leather and ozone and something sharp underneath — the promise of speed, the hint of danger, the anticipation that always seemed to follow him.
Josephine barely remembered the drive. Every red light felt like a dare.
Every acceleration, a warning. He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to. The tension in the car was a living thing — heavy, electric, a thunderstorm ready to break wide open.
He drove fast, out of the city, past the lights, into the dark, where the world narrowed to the pulse in her throat and the sound of his breath.
He pulled off the road somewhere without a name. Trees on either side. No headlights for miles. Just the hum of the engine and the wild rhythm of her heart.
He killed the ignition. Silence crashed in. Then he turned to her, and everything else disappeared.
She didn’t remember who moved first. Maybe him.
Maybe her. Maybe both of them, reckless and desperate, meeting in the middle like there wasn’t enough air in the world.
His mouth hit hers hard — no warning, no hesitation.
Teeth, tongue, hunger. Her fingers fisted in his jacket, dragging him closer, like she could crawl inside his skin and never come out.
He let her. God, he let her. But he took, too — took her face in his hands, angled her head, kissed her deeper, harder, like he’d been starving for months and only just realized she was the cure.
She moaned into his mouth. He swallowed the sound.
The heat between them was immediate, unforgiving — the kind that didn’t care about consequences or common sense. Buttons popped. Fabric tore. She didn’t care. She wanted him. All of him. Now.
He pulled her into his lap, hands everywhere at once — rough palms on her thighs, her hips, the soft skin just beneath her dress. She gasped, arched, pressed closer. He growled something low and filthy against her throat. She laughed. He bit her shoulder. She nearly came apart right there.
It was messy. Clumsy. Perfect. The center console dug into her back. His hands left marks on her skin. She’d have bruises tomorrow, and she wanted them.
He pushed her skirt up, tore her underwear off like it offended him. She fumbled at his belt, desperate, greedy, not even pretending she had patience left. He was already hard. Already ready. She barely managed to get him free before he was inside her.
No warning. No mercy. She cried out, hand slapping against the window. He caught her wrist, pinned it above her head, and thrust deeper.
She shattered. Just like that. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down — gave her everything, every inch, every ounce of control, every dark, possessive promise he’d ever made. She took all of it, met him thrust for thrust, bite for bite, demand for demand.
The car filled with the sound of skin on skin and the ragged, hungry noises they made together.
Josephine’s breath came in gasps, punched out of her lungs every time he thrust into her.
Viktor crowded her close, hand braced against the glass, her thigh hitched up and locked around his waist. Nothing careful.
Nothing civilized. Just heat and friction and the wild, greedy need that had been building for months.
He fucked her hard, every movement sharp, possessive, like she belonged to him and he wanted her to remember it.
She clawed at his back, nails digging through his shirt, desperate to get closer, to anchor herself against the storm of sensation.
He bit her neck, left marks, sucked hard enough to bruise. She wanted that too.
She was already wet, already aching, every nerve ending lit up and raw. He moved deeper, harder, and she almost sobbed, the pleasure so sharp it crossed into pain. She loved it. Needed it. Needed him. She said his name, over and over, voice breaking on each syllable.
He caught her face in his hand and kissed her, open-mouthed and brutal, like he wanted to swallow every sound she made.
His other hand held her pinned, fingers splayed over her hip, anchoring her in place.
She tried to ride him back, but he wouldn’t let her — he set the pace, took control, made her feel breakable and precious at the same time.
The windows fogged. The air turned thick with sweat and want and the faint, expensive cologne he always wore.
She could taste him on her tongue, sharp and dark, a little bitter, a little sweet.
He whispered something filthy in Russian against her ear, and she shattered, pleasure ripping through her so fast she almost blacked out.
She clenched around him, shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders. He groaned, deep in his chest, and fucked her through it, relentless, merciless, until she was sobbing, until she was begging, until she thought she might never come down.
He followed her over the edge, teeth bared, hand tight on her jaw, head thrown back. He emptied into her, every muscle drawn tight, every line of his body etched in shadow and moonlight. For a second, neither of them moved.
Then he slumped forward, forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and uneven. His hand slid up, tangled in her hair, holding her still. He kissed her again, softer this time, almost reverent. She tasted salt and sweat, her own tears, his hunger.
She tried to speak. Couldn’t. So she just held on, arms wrapped around his neck, letting herself be small, letting herself be his.
He stroked her cheek with his thumb, careful now, like she might break if he touched her wrong. “You okay?”
She nodded, throat too tight to answer.
He smiled, slow and dark. “Good.”
They stayed tangled together, sweat cooling, the world outside the car shrinking to nothing.
The only thing that mattered was the steady thud of his heart and the way he held her, like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted.
She didn’t know how long they stayed like that — could have been seconds, could have been hours.
Time didn’t work right in the dark, not with his arms around her, not with his heart hammering against hers, steady and wild at once.
He stroked her hair, slow and gentle, nothing like the way he’d just wrecked her. She tasted blood in her mouth — didn’t remember biting her lip, but she must have. She liked the sting. Liked the way he watched her, gaze hungry and soft, all at once.
She tried to move. Failed. Her thighs shook when she unclenched them from his hips.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“Josephine.” Her name, low and rough, like a secret dragged across gravel. She shuddered. He caught her chin, angled her face up, and kissed her again — this time with no teeth, no violence, just warmth.
She melted. No one had ever kissed her like that. Like she was precious. Like she was breakable.
She wasn’t. Except, maybe, for him.
He eased her back into the passenger seat, hands careful now. She felt the mess between her legs, the bruises blooming on her hips and thighs, the ache in her chest, sharp and perfect. She wanted more. She wanted everything.
He reached down, found her underwear on the floor, torn and useless, and pocketed it without a word.
She should have been embarrassed. Wasn’t. She grinned at him, reckless and wild, and he grinned right back.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“You look smug,” she shot back.
He shrugged, not even pretending to deny it. “You’re mine.”
She should have argued — should have told him people didn’t belong to each other.
She didn’t. Because it was true.
She was his. And he was hers.