26. There goes another Brunello （Tamara）
THERE GOES ANOTHER brUNELLO (TAMARA)
The car ride home is torture.
Aleksander sits close enough that our thighs press together through silk and dark wool, the heat of him seeping steadily into my skin. One large hand rests loosely against his knee—not touching me, not moving, just there—while Manhattan blurs past the tinted windows in streaks of white and gold.
Every breath feels too loud.
Every heartbeat a countdown.
His jaw is hard, dark eyes fixed forward like concentration alone might save him from whatever this is becoming.
Long fingers flex once against his thigh.
His throat works in a slow swallow.
I should move away.
Put space between us. Remember this is still a forced arrangement, no matter how warm his hand felt at my back tonight. No matter how softly he looked at me in that club. No matter how easy it suddenly felt sitting across from him at the table.
This is dangerous.
Not him.
This.
The wanting.
Because wanting changes things.
And somewhere beneath all of it lives the terrible understanding that if I let myself cross this line, part of me is choosing this life.
Choosing him.
The realization should scare me more than it does.
Instead, I shift closer. Barely an inch. Still enough that Aleksander notices immediately.
His fingers tighten fractionally against his knee before he turns his head toward me.
The air changes instantly.
His breathing loses its steady rhythm. One slow inhale catching halfway through his chest before his gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
The partition between us and the driver has been raised since we left the club, sealing us into a private silence that suddenly feels much too small.
“What do you want?” he asks. The question is rough. I lift my hand and touch his chest. His body goes absolutely still beneath my palm.
“I want you not to walk away this time.”
His fingers flex on his thigh.
“Sasha,” I whisper.
The name does what it did last night. I feel it move through him, feel the fracture in all that discipline, feel the man beneath the control answer before the rest of him can stop it.
When he looks at me, his eyes are dark pools.
“Say it only if you mean it.”
I don’t hesitate. “Sasha.”
His hand lifts slowly to my jaw. Stops before touching. I close the distance, turning my face into his palm.
His fingers settle against my skin, warm and careful, trembling almost imperceptibly. That tiny weakness undoes me more than any force could have.
His eyes lift back to mine.
“Yes, trouble?”
The nickname lands somewhere low in my stomach. I know exactly what this means.
A shift neither of us can undo afterward. Somehow that feels far more intimate.
My fingers close slowly around the sleeve of his coat before I can lose my nerve. His gaze searches my face with unnerving precision. “This complicates things for you.”
This isn’t what men like my father say. This isn’t what powerful men usually mean.
“Yes,” I whisper. The truth sits hot and aching beneath my skin. Days of tension and restraint and wanting him while pretending I don’t. Every careful glance. Every accidental touch. Every moment of safety I never expected to feel beside a man like him.
I am so tired of holding all of it alone.
His fingers brush lightly against my jaw. The touch is absurdly gentle for a man capable of so much violence. His thumb traces once along my cheekbone, eyes never leaving mine.
“You look terrified,” he murmurs.
“I am.”
His expression shifts slightly.
“But I also feel safe with you.”
His thumb stills briefly against my skin. “Tamara,” he says quietly, “I’m not going to take pieces of you.”
The words hit me so hard my chest actually hurts. Because somehow he understood exactly what I meant without me saying it out loud.
My mother slowly disappearing inside my father’s world. The years I spent building a life that belonged entirely to me. The fear that wanting Aleksander means surrendering all of it.
Instead of tightening his grip, he loosens it.
“Tell me what you want tonight,” he says, voice rougher now. Lower. “Give me a boundary, and I’ll hold it.”
I feel my pulse stumble painfully against my ribs. I can see how hard he’s holding himself back—the tension pulling at his mouth, the controlled rise and fall of his chest, the muscle ticking once in his jaw.
And still he’s asking permission.
The car turns slowly into the underground garage. Neither of us moves when the engine cuts off. The silence inside the car stretches tight enough to break.
Before I can think myself out of it, I lean closer, brush my mouth softly against his, and feel the sharp inhale he tries to suppress. Then my tongue traces lightly across his lower lip.
And Aleksander’s control breaks.
His hand slides into my hair with a rough sound low in his throat as he kisses me back—deep and devastatingly careful at the same time.
Not taking. Never taking. Just holding me there like a precious gift while my entire body melts helplessly toward him.
The garage lights glow dimly through the tinted windows by the time we finally pull apart, both of us breathing hard. His forehead rests briefly against mine.
“Still okay?” he asks quietly.
The fact that he asks nearly undoes me.
“Yes.”
His thumb brushes once across my swollen mouth before he exhales slowly and forces himself backward.
Then the driver opens his door, and reality intrudes. Aleksander exits first, offering his hand with a careful courtesy he always maintains in public. I take it, letting him pull me from the car, acutely aware of how his thumb strokes across my knuckles.
We cross the garage in silence. Enter the elevator. The doors slide shut, sealing us in chrome and mirrors.
He reaches for the button to our floor.
I reach for him, attack, bringing myself up to his mouth and sweeping my tongue inside.
“Tamara. Fuck—”
“I need you to make this ache stop, Aleks.”
My hands fist in his shirt, yanking him down as I rise on my toes.
His surprise lasts maybe half a second before his mouth crashes into mine.
His hands span my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he walks me backward until I hit the mirrored wall.
The impact jolts through me, followed immediately by the solid weight of his body pressing me flat.
I bite his lower lip—not gently—and his groan vibrates through my entire body. His hand slides up to cup my jaw, angling my head for deeper access while his tongue demands entry. I give it willingly, opening for him while my fingers work frantically at his shirt.
The elevator climbs. I don’t care which floor we’re on. The ache between my thighs builds with every onslaught of his mouth.
His tongue moves to my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point, before sucking hard enough to mark. My back arches off the wall, one leg hitching up around his hip, and he catches it with his free hand, palm burning through silk, hiking my thigh higher.
The dress rides up dangerously high.
Good. Better access.
When his hand finds bare skin above my stocking, we both freeze for a heartbeat. Then his fingers dig into my flesh, pulling me harder against him, and I can feel exactly how much he wants this through the fabric of his pants.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open, and we stumble into the apartment, a tangle of hands and mouths. He crowds me against the wall, his breathing harsh against my temple. I reach between us, palming him through his pants, and his curse is filthy and perfect.
“I want you,” he growls. “Now.”
It’s silent in the apartment, impossibly quiet except for the accelerated pounding of our hearts. His hands are everywhere. Possessive and claiming and exactly what I need.
He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me through the darkened apartment. Past the living room. Past the kitchen where we’ve shared careful conversations over my atrocious cooking.
Straight to the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
He lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness, then straightens to shed his jacket. The shirt follows, buttons scattering as he rips it open rather than waste time with each fastening.
“There goes another Brunello,” I say, breathless despite myself. Then I forget the joke entirely. Broad shoulders. Hard muscle. Scars I have questions about and absolutely no intention of asking about now.
My fingers find the zipper at my back, but he’s already there, pulling it down in one smooth motion. The silk pools at my waist, exposing black lace beneath, and the way he looks at me—like I’m precious and profane all at once—makes me achy and swollen, a problem I want to put in his hands now.
He comes down over me, forearms braced on either side of my head, his weight a delicious pressure. His mouth finds mine again, softer now but no less consuming, while his hands map every curve through lace and silk.
This is happening. We’re doing this.
And I want it—want him—with desperation I haven’t felt with anyone else.
His hand slides up my thigh, fingers hooking in lace, and I lift my hips to help him. The fabric tears—he doesn’t have the patience for careful removal—and then there’s nothing between us but lust and the choice we’re both making.
His thumb slides between my folds, stroking, tearing a moan from me.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word raw. “You feel exactly as I imagined.”
A laugh escapes me. “You imagined it?”
“You have no idea,” he rasps, his finger playing in my wetness while he licks my lips greedily.
My hands slide down his stomach, reaching for his belt, and he captures my wrist in a steel grip.
“You want to be in charge,” he murmurs, pinning my arms above my head with his free hand.
He presses a bruising kiss on my mouth, his thumb sliding through slick heat, circling my clit, making my vision blur.
I like what he’s doing. But I want to see him give up the control he’s always holding on to so desperately.
“Let me touch you the way I want,” I say, wiggling my hands free.
His responding groan is cut off by my lips, our mouths colliding. “Take what you need.”
My pulse accelerates. He’s letting me choose, set the pace. I sit up, forcing him back onto his heels.
I reach for the zipper at his waist, and his mouth finds my neck, kissing a line down my throat and across the top of my breasts. My hands shake a little, but the zipper moves easily, and then his pants are gone and he’s gloriously, beautifully naked.
“I want to eat you out so fucking bad,” he says through his teeth, while my hands explore the hard lines of his body, getting familiar with the ridges of his abs, the scars on his chest, the sharp cut of his hip bones.
But he lets me touch, his breathing uneven as I move closer and closer to where he’s fully hard and throbbing.
“Can I kiss you down there, trouble?” His hand moves to my wrist again, gripping it tightly, but instead of stopping me, his eyes darken and his hold shifts to a guiding pressure.
“I will let you do everything.” Sensing his need to hear me say it, I find his heavy-lidded eyes. “But I need to touch you first.”
He drops his forehead to mine, hissing a curse against my mouth. “Put me out of my misery, trouble,” he rasps, guiding my hand and showing me how he likes to be stroked.
The first slide of his skin against mine makes us both groan. He’s velvet and steel, hot and pulsing, and my mouth goes dry at the idea that this is for me. That this is the moment where his control finally snaps.
My hand continues moving, a steady rhythm that has him breathing hard. His grip tightens slightly, guiding me faster. Firmer. Until I can feel his pulse pounding, feel him losing the last shreds of sanity, feel his muscles go rigid beneath my hands.
Before he can explode, I let go and crawl back on the bed.
“Tamara,” he growls. “Fuck. Lie back and spread those legs for me.”
He’s kneeling on the bed, hovering above me, his erection pressed against my stomach.
“I’m done waiting,” he whispers, and then he’s pushing into me, hard and fast, filling me up, stretching me, claiming every inch.
“Oh, God,” I pant.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t wait, doesn’t give me time to adjust. He pulls out and then slams into me, again and again, each thrust hard enough to rattle the bedframe. My hands grab his ass, nails digging in, urging him deeper, and the answering snarl vibrates through my chest.
I feel the orgasm building fast. Pleasure explodes inside me, ripping a scream from my throat. He’s relentless, his hips snapping forward, plunging deeper, his grip tightening on my hip hard enough to leave bruises.
And then he moves us—a swift roll, a shift of balance, a breathless second where the world spins and the only anchor is the solid heat of him.
The next thing I know, he’s sitting back on his heels, my thighs draped over his, and he’s holding me up by my hips, controlling the pace. I lean back, bracing myself with my hands.
“Good girl,” he growls in approval, thrusting harder. “Ride your husband.”
So I do.
He takes everything. Every last shred of doubt, every lingering fear, every bit of self-control. He claims all of it, his grip on my hips bordering on pain, his cock thick and unyielding, his eyes a predator’s gaze drinking in the sight of me.
I’m shaking, barely holding myself together, but he’s unrelenting.
“More,” he says.
I can’t say no.
I don’t want to say no.
This is what I need—the connection, the choice, the freedom to surrender. To let him own me for these moments when everything else falls away.
He has us change again, putting me on my knees this time, face-first into the pillows. He grabs a fistful of my hair, tugging my head back, and fucks me from behind.
It’s rough and brutal and beautiful. “You feel amazing,” he rasps, slamming into me.
He releases my hair, and one hand slides down my spine. His palm presses between my shoulder blades, holding me down. His other hand cups my ass, his grip rough.
I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe.
“Come for me.”
It’s an order, and I can’t do anything but obey.
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse. “Let me feel you.”
An orgasm rips through me with the force of a freight train, and I cry out, shuddering. His hands tighten, and I can feel him pulse inside me. He moves faster, and I ride the wave.
His hands grab me, yanking me back onto his chest, roaring his release, every muscle locking tight while he empties himself into me.
We stay there for a minute, both panting and sweaty, before he carefully lowers us both onto the mattress. He rolls onto his back, one hand resting on his chest while the other settles possessively on my thigh.
“Fuck,” he breathes, sounding almost surprised. “This was worth the wait.”
We stay like that for a long time, my head on his chest, spent, satisfied. Eventually, he pulls a blanket up over my body, and I drift off to a heavy, dreamless sleep.