Marie
I should leave. I should turn and run, slam the door, pretend I never saw this. Pretend I didn’t just walk in on Viktor Maksimov—massive, powerful, terrifying bratva kingpin—jerking off in the dark.
Pretend I don’t see his thick cock in his fist, slick and pulsing, his grip rough, his chest rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths.
Pretend I don’t feel my clit throb at the sight of him.
I should be horrified. I should be afraid. But instead—I’m burning.
His voice is low, deep, commanding. “Come here.”
Two words. An order. And I obey.
My legs feel weak and unsteady. I take a step. Then another.
He doesn’t stop stroking himself. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move, except for the slow, deliberate drag of his fist up and down his cock. His fingers tighten at the base, his knuckles whitening, his sensual lips parting as a low growl escapes his throat.
I feel it. Deep. Low. Between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, but it only makes the ache worse. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
I don’t know why I can’t stop moving toward him.
But I can’t.
I don’t want to.
I stop right in front of him.
Close enough to smell him.
Clean, sharp, masculine.
Close enough that if I moved even an inch forward, my thighs would brush his knees.
He exhales slowly, his fingers finally releasing his cock.
My breath catches.
I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.
But then he reaches for me.
And everything stops.
His fingers graze my sweater.
Just the hem.
Just enough to feel the heat of his skin through the fabric.
I should pull away.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
He tugs.
Just enough to lift the material, exposing a sliver of my stomach.
My pulse skips.
My lips part.
His eyes—dark, unreadable, impossibly intense—stay locked on mine.
His fingertips glide lower, teasing the waistband of my leggings.
Not pushing.
Not demanding.
Just hovering.
Waiting.
For me to pull away.
For me to say no.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I just stand there, trembling, burning, losing my fucking mind.
His touch skims lower.
Over the dip of my waist.
Over the swell of my hip.
Over my thighs, the curve of my ass.
I gasp.
My body reacts before I can stop it, my breath shaky, my legs clenching together.
His eyes flash.
Something dark. Dangerous. Possessive.
Oh God.
What am I doing?
His hands finally settle on my hips.
Firm and owning.
His grip tightens, tugging me closer.
I don’t stop him.
I don’t pull away.
I just let him.
Let him hold me.
Let him take what he wants. What he needs.
His voice is low, rough, thick with something dark and intoxicating.
“Good girl.”