Chapter 15 #2
I’m standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the rain, when the lock clicks shut behind me.
It’s Konstantin. He’s removed his jacket and tie.
"Undress," he orders.
I don't move.
"He didn't even ask if I was okay," I whisper. "My father... he just wanted the shipping codes."
My husband crosses the room. I feel his heat before I feel his touch. He spins me around, pressing me against the cold glass.
"He’s the past," he says, voice rough.
"I have nothing left," I say. "I’m empty.”
"Then I’ll fill you," he growls, stepping between my legs. "I own you now. I take everything. That’s the deal."
He grips the neckline of my blouse.
I look up at him. I should hate him. He’s the monster who trapped me.
But looking into his eyes, the anger drains out of me, replaced by a hard truth. My father looked at me and saw a liability he could cut loose. Konstantin looks at me like a prize he’d burn the city to keep.
He’s a monster, yes. But he’s the only one standing between me and emptiness.
With him, I don't only feel safe. I feel seen.
And God help me, I want him. Not to forget the pain, but because he’s the only man strong enough to keep me.
I don't pull away. I step closer, pressing my body against his, craving his heat.
"Take it," I whisper, my voice breathless. "Show me I'm yours."
He doesn’t wait.
He snarls and seizes the front of my blouse in both fists, ripping it open. Fabric tears. My breasts spill free, bouncing hard, nipples already stiff and aching for him.
His hand closes around my throat, forcing my head back until my eyes meet his.
“You want the monster?” His voice drops low and rough. “Then you get all of him.”
The room spins a second later. Suddenly I’m turned around, face to the glass, my palms slapping the window just like they did in the library. Only this time it’s different. This time I push my ass back against him on purpose.
My skirt is yanked up over my hips. A sharp tug and my panties slide down my thighs, leaving me bare.
Crack.
His palm lands hard across my ass. I gasp, the sound echoing against the glass.
Another strike follows, harder this time, lighting up the other cheek. Heat spreads across my skin and shoots straight between my legs.
“Count them,” he orders.
“Two,” I breathe.
Crack.
“Three.”
He stops at five, both cheeks burning, the sting pulsing with every heartbeat. Then the pressure disappears as he drops to his knees behind me.
The first thing I feel is his breath—hot against my pussy.
Then his tongue.
It drags from my throbbing clit down to my dripping hole, slow and deliberate. A moan tears out of me, fogging the glass in front of my face.
My clit disappears into his mouth. His lips seal around it, sucking hard, pulling it like he’s trying to drink me. His tongue flicks fast and relentless.
My legs tremble violently, thighs shaking as I struggle to stay upright.
A growl vibrates against me, the sound traveling straight through my body and making my hips jerk back toward him. One hand clamps down on my hip to hold me steady while two thick fingers slide inside me.
They curl.
Pump.
Curl again.
All while his mouth works my clit without mercy.
Every movement sends sparks through my nerves.
I’m soaked for him.
“Konstantin!” I gasp, voice cracking.
He pulls off just long enough to bite the inside of my thigh, hard enough to mark, then dives back in, sucking even harder.
I shatter into orgasm. My legs shake like crazy.
My scream smears across the fogged glass, his name leaving my mouth in a broken cry. He doesn’t stop. His tongue keeps working through every aftershock until I’m shaking and helpless, my clit throbbing so hard it almost hurts. Sensitivity builds until it’s too much, and I weakly push at his head.
Only then does he rise.
The world tilts again as he turns me around, lifting me like I weigh nothing before pinning me back to the glass. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist.
He’s already hard.
There’s no teasing, no easing in. One brutal thrust drives him deep inside me.
A sharp cry escapes as pain and pleasure collide. He fills me so completely the pressure reaches my stomach.
The glass is cold against my back while his body presses hot against the front of mine. His hips snap forward again and again, hammering me against the window as if he’s trying to break straight through it.
His mouth brushes my ear.
“Let them see down there,” he growls. “Let every fucker on the street look up and watch who owns this pussy. Who makes you scream my name.”
His hands clamp around my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. This isn’t just sex. Every thrust feels like a claim, like he’s carving his name into every inch of me.
“He erased you,” he snarls against my neck. “I’m rewriting you.”
Another deep thrust drives the air from my lungs.
“You’re not a Blackwood anymore.”
He slams into me again.
“You’re a Morozov. You breathe my air. You bleed my blood.”
A sob breaks out of me—not from pain, but from the overwhelming rush of him filling every hollow space inside me, every crack my father left behind.
He's not just inside my body. He's burning away the betrayal, replacing it with a dark strength.
“Make me forget him,” I beg, legs locking tighter around his waist. “Burn him out of me.”
He growls something filthy in Russian, hips slamming harder, like he’s sealing the words into my bones.
I bite his neck. He groans, thrusting even deeper.
I’m close again. My clit grinds hard against his pelvis every time he goes all the way in.
“Come for me,” he orders. “Come on my cock, wife.”
I orgasm harder than before, clenching tight around him and crying out his name.
He comes right after.
"That's it, take every drop," he rasps, spilling deep.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays buried inside me, letting the heat of him settle.
He holds me there. His forehead presses against mine, both of us breathing like we just fought a war.
"Say it," he growls.
“I’m yours,” I whisper. “All yours.”
He kisses me once more, slowly this time, then carries me to the bed.
We collapse on the dark sheets, his arms locked around me.
For the first time since this started, I don’t feel empty.
I feel claimed.
And fuck, it’s good.
As I lie there in the circle of his arms, waiting for sleep, I’m no longer a prisoner. I’m a weapon that’s freshly forged.
My eyes drift shut. The fear that choked me in the car is gone, burned away by his touch and my father’s betrayal.
Let the Council come. Let the wolves circle.
I’m Mrs. Morozov now. I’m ready to bite back.