Chapter 6 #2
He would back me toward the bed, his grip on my throat a constant, controlling pressure. He wouldn’t push me down. No, he would let go, a sudden, dizzying release, and I would stumble, falling back onto the plush duvet. He would stand over me, a statue carved from shadow and ice, and just watch me.
“Take it off,” he would command.
And I would. Because in this fantasy, I wanted to. I wanted to see the look in his eyes as I slowly peeled the silk from my shoulders, as I revealed myself to him willingly, on my terms. I would lie down on the bed, naked, exposed, and I would wait.
He would undress then, but not with Roman’s careless grace.
His movements would be precise, economical, each button undone, each piece of clothing removed with purposeful intent and draped neatly somewhere.
He would be beautifully, terrifyingly male, all lean muscle and sharp lines.
And his cock… it would be as hard and unyielding as the rest of him.
He would move to the side of the bed. He would turn me over, his hands firm, insistent, positioning me on my stomach.
Then he would lift my hips and slide a pillow beneath them, raising my ass for him.
His hand would press between my shoulders, pushing them down onto the mattress.
The position would be vulnerable, humiliating, and it would send a bolt of pure lust straight through me.
I would bury my face in the duvet, my fists clenching in the fabric, a mixture of shame and anticipation coiling in my stomach. But I would hold still for him.
Then his belt would come down on my ass, a sharp, stinging blow that would make me gasp. The pain would be immediate, a hot, tingling sensation that would spread through my entire body.
He wouldn’t be lenient. He would spank me again and again, a relentless, punishing rhythm that would match the hard, heavy throb of my own heart.
It would hurt, so much, but soon the pain would blur into desire that would throb right between my legs.
I would be soaking wet, my arousal dripping down my inner thigh, my body a traitor, humming with a pleasure that felt like betrayal.
He would stop suddenly. The silence would be as loud as the blows had been. I would feel the bed dip as he moved behind me. He would run his fingers over my heated skin, a proprietary caress that would make my teeth clench and my pussy ache.
“So wet for me,” he would murmur, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “You always were. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
Then he would enter me.
Not like Roman. Not a sudden, shocking invasion.
He would press into me slowly, inexorably, stretching me, filling me, his cock a long, thick, unyielding pressure.
He would be watching me, I would feel his eyes on my back, on the way my body trembled, the way my fists clenched in the sheets.
He would savor my submission, his own personal form of victory over a girl like me.
He would start to move, his hips snapping against my reddened ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.
His rhythm would be punishing, an animalistic claiming of my body that would leave no room for thought, for resistance, for anything but sensation.
He would be a man in the primitive sense, and he would remind me that I am a woman, his to possess and use and fuck.
“Tell me you want it,” he would command.
And I would. Because in this fantasy, I would be broken. I would be a sobbing punished wreck, and my surrender would no longer be my own to give.
It would be his to take.
“I want it,” I would sob. “I want you to fuck me, Lev.”
The thought, the fantasy, the imagined surrender was too much.
My hand, which had been resting on the edge of the tub, slid down my stomach, my fingers tracing a path through the warm, scented water.
I found my clit, already swollen and aching, and I gasped, a quick, ragged breath that was half pain, half desire.
I circled the sensitive nub, my movements slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of the fantasy Lev had created in my mind.
For a moment, I was entirely distracted.
But then, a sound reached me—an unmistakable thrum that turned the windows to trembling mirrors. I froze. At this height, noise didn’t reach often. When it did, it meant something.
The steady rhythm of rotors rolled closer, deeper, until it drowned out the heartbeat in my ears.
For one terrible second, I told myself it was coincidence.
Dubai was full of powerful men. Then a sleek shadow cut across the sunlight, settling into place with unnerving precision.
I heard the rotors slow, the blades ticking to a stop.
The bathroom filled with silence again—dense, expectant.
Fuck.
The hotel’s helipad.
My stomach turned cold. Without a second thought, I flew out of the bath.
Water sloshed onto the marble, my body gleaming under the lights.
I grabbed my panties, yanked them up my legs and wrapped the robe around me, the fabric clinging to my damp skin as I moved to the windows.
The helicopter, a sleek, black dragon displayed a crest I recognized instantly—three interlocking circles, stark and silver against the matte black finish.
The Markov family crest.
I had only seconds. Maybe a minute at most.
I sprinted to the bedroom, my mind a whirlwind of calculation. My go-bag was concealed in the walk-in closet. Two passports, cash, a clean phone, all hidden in the false bottom of a designer suitcase. I was reaching for it when another sound reached me.
By the time I made it to the main room, the door to the balcony had already opened.
Lev Markov stood there, framed by the morning glare like he’d been carved out of the light. The same tailored black suit I’d imagined, the shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of the ink that coiled up his throat. No weapon in sight. He didn’t need one.
He shut the glass door behind him with a soft click. “You really should lock these things,” he intoned, his voice dangerously calm.
“I find locks give people a false sense of safety.”
He smiled faintly. “And yet, here you are, startled from your bath. Your wet skin is making that robe cling to your body in quite a fetching manner.”
I crossed to the bar, poured a mug of coffee I didn’t need. “If you’re here to kill me, you could at least let me finish my morning routine.”
“I’m not here to kill you.” He paused, studying me. “Yet.”
“So dramatic,” I retorted. “Still practicing your intimidation tactics, or is this one personal?”
“It’s business,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Though I’ll admit, the view’s improved since boarding school.”
I hated the way that line made my skin prickle. He’d grown into his cruelty; it fit him just like his immaculate suit.
“You tracked me all by yourself,” I said, setting down the glass. “I’m flattered.”
“I enjoy the hunt,” he replied.
“And what happens when the hunt’s over?”
He stepped closer, hands casually resting in his pants pockets, gaze fixed on me like I was an equation he intended to solve. “That depends on what I find.”
“Maybe you should’ve brought backup,” I said softly.
“I wanted to handle you all by myself.” His eyes moved over me once, toes to top, and my skin prickled with heat.
“You still talk like you’re winning.”
He tilted his head. “You still pretend you don’t want to lose.”
“Careful, Lev,” I said. “You might find out you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.”
He smiled then, slow and certain. “That’s why I came alone.”
The air between us felt electric, the line between threat and some darker thing tightening with every breath.
I was moving before I’d fully decided to. Not toward the go-bag, not toward the balcony. I went for the side table, where a decorative letter opener rested—silver, heavy, and plenty sharp enough to cut. My fingers closed around it just as his hand clamped over my wrist.
His strength was staggering. Almost inhuman.
“Let go,” I demanded calmly, my voice carrying with it the weight of a threat.
“Or what?” he whispered, his other hand brushing my hip, his thumb skimming the edge of my short silk robe.
I twisted, but he countered fast, pinning my arm behind my back in a movement so fluid and efficient it was almost beautiful. The letter opener clattered to the floor. He pressed me against the wall, his body a warm, solid weight against my back, his mouth close to my ear.
“You always were stubborn,” he murmured. “Did you really think you could steal from my family and just… walk away?”
“I didn’t steal anything,” I said, though the lie was thin in the sudden heat between us.
“Liar,” he whispered.
I drove my elbow back, aiming for his ribs.
He caught it easily, his hand closing around my arm, his grip like iron.
He spun me around, forcing me to face him, his hands gripping my upper arms, pinning me against the cool marble.
His eyes were dark, fathomless, and they held a challenge rooted in our shared past.
“Fight me,” he commanded. “I want you to.”
So, I did. I thrashed, I struggled, my hands pushing against his chest, my nails scraping at the fine fabric of his suit.
It was useless though. He was a wall of muscle and iron will, and I was a storm against a mountain.
He was too strong, too skilled, his movements powerful as he neutralized my struggles with a calm, terrifying ease.
He caught both my wrists in one of his large hands, lifting them over my head and pinning them to the wall. His other hand went to the tie of my robe, tugging it open. The silk whispered against my skin, parting easily, exposing me to the cool, conditioned air and to his roving gaze.