5. Wren #2
"Excellent," he says. "My parents liked to go on yacht trips at least once a year. I grew up on the water."
"Really?"
He guides the boat away from the dock, easy and confident. "My father worked for the pakhan. Trusted circle. We had money, before."
"Before?"
"Before he died." His voice stays light, but there's something underneath it—something careful. "There was an ambush. Territory dispute. My mother was with him."
My stomach drops. "Maxim. I'm sorry."
He shrugs, steering us toward the center of the lake. "I was seventeen, a year older than Kostya when it happened. Lev's father took me in. Gave me a home, a family, a name. Could've been worse."
"Could've been better, too."
"Maybe." He glances at me, and his smile softens. "But then I wouldn't have met you, so I'm calling it a wash."
I don't know what to say to that. My chest aches with something too big to name.
He keeps talking as we drift farther from shore, the boat rocking gently beneath us with each small wave.
His voice washes over me like the sunlight—easy, warm, real.
He tells me about those yacht trips in more detail: his father at the helm, confident and sun-bronzed; his mother stretched out on the deck with a book she never actually read, one eye always on Maxim; the smell of salt air and expensive sunscreen; the particular blue of deep water that he'd stare into for hours, wondering what lived that far down.
He tells me about learning to tie knots—his father's hands over his, patient and sure, teaching him bowlines and clove hitches until muscle memory took over.
About reading the wind, how you can feel a change coming in the way the air moves across your skin, the way the surface tension shifts before your eyes can catch it.
About the time he fell overboard when he was eight—showing off, naturally, because he was always showing off—and his mother didn't even hesitate, just kicked off her sandals and dove in fully clothed, her silk cover-up billowing around her like a jellyfish as she grabbed him by the back of his swim trunks and hauled him up.
"She was furious," he says, and his grin is pure mischief and affection tangled together. "Not because I fell—because I scared her. She held onto me the whole swim back like I might disappear if she let go, and then she yelled at me for twenty minutes straight while my father tried not to laugh."
The image hits me square in the chest—Maxim as a little boy, dripping wet and sheepish, loved so fiercely it came out as anger. I can see it so clearly it hurts.
"She sounds amazing," I say quietly.
"She was." His hand flexes on the tiller, just once, and then the lightness slides back into place. "She would've liked you, I think. She had a thing for people who said what they meant."
I don't know what to do with that, so I just look at him—really look, at the way the sun catches in his hair, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, the beard that frames his mouth and makes him look older, steadier, like the kind of man who'd jump into cold water without thinking twice.
He keeps going, spinning story after story, his voice an anchor and a sail all at once.
And I laugh—really laugh, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and surprised, the kind I didn't know I still had in me.
The sound spills out across the water, bright and unguarded, and it echoes back from the tree line like the lake itself is pleased.
Guards dot the tree line around the property, dark shapes against the green. But out here, in the middle of the lake, it's just us. Quiet. Peaceful.
Maxim cuts the engine.
The sudden silence feels enormous. Water laps against the hull. A bird calls from the shore. He turns to me, and the look on his face makes my thighs clench.
"Come here," he says.
"I'm right here."
"Closer."
I shift on the bench, closing the distance between us. He reaches out, fingers catching the hem of my shirt—his shirt—and tugs gently until I'm standing between his knees.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs, and his hands slide up the backs of my thighs, slow and deliberate. "Do you have any idea what you do to us?"
"I—" The words dissolve when his thumbs brush the crease where my legs meet my ass.
"Lev can't stop staring at you. Kostya keeps inventing reasons to be in whatever room you're in. And me?" His fingers dig in slightly, possessive. "I've been hard since you walked into the kitchen this morning."
Heat pools low in my belly. "Maxim."
"Say it again."
"Maxim."
The low, guttural groan that tears from Maxim’s throat vibrates against my lips before he claims my mouth completely—deep, devouring, the kind of kiss that erases every thought except the hot slide of his tongue and the faint taste of lake air and mint on him.
His hands roam like they’re memorizing me, palms dragging over the thin cotton of my shirt that barely covers my bare skin, thumbs circling the stiff peaks of my nipples until electricity crackles straight down to my core.
I’m dizzy, spinning, the world narrowing to the rough scrape of his stubble against my chin and the heavy, musky scent of his arousal thickening the cool breeze off the water.
“Sit,” he growls against my mouth, the word half command, half plea.
My legs obey before my brain catches up.
I sink onto the narrow bench behind me, knees parting shamelessly, the cool varnish of the wood pressing against the backs of my thighs.
The boat rocks lazily beneath us, water lapping at the hull in rhythmic little kisses that match the frantic pulse between my legs.
Maxim drops to his knees on the damp floorboards without hesitation, all six-four of lethal charm and coiled danger folding himself between my spread thighs like I’m the only altar he’s ever wanted to worship at.
The sight of him there—dark hair slicked back, trimmed beard framing that wicked mouth, tattoos peeking from the open collar of his shirt—nearly undoes me right then. My pulse hammers so hard I feel it in my throat, in my clit, everywhere.
“You’re perfect,” he rasps, voice gone raw and sandpaper-rough, eyes locked on my exposed pussy like it’s the only thing left in his universe. “Every soaked, pretty inch of you. I’m going to taste every single one until you forget your own name.”
His large hands slide up my thighs, calluses catching on sensitive skin, shoving the hem of his shirt higher until cool air kisses my bare, dripping folds.
When he realizes I’m wearing absolutely nothing underneath, a strangled sound escapes him—half choked laugh, half animal growl that sends fresh heat flooding through me.
“Fuck, Wren. You’re killing me. Walking around with this sweet little cunt bare all day, just waiting for my tongue.”
“Good,” I manage, the word trembling.
He flashes that devastating grin, the one that promises sin and salvation at once, and then his mouth is on me—hot, wet, insistent. I gasp sharply, head snapping back as the first broad stroke of his tongue drags through my folds, lapping up the slick evidence of how badly I’ve wanted this.
The wet, obscene sounds of him devouring me mix with the gentle slap of lake water against the boat and the distant cry of a bird from the tree line. My hands scrabble for purchase on the smooth bench edges, nails scraping wood as my hips jerk involuntarily.
He’s maddeningly, perfectly slow at first, tracing lazy, intricate patterns over my clit that make my thighs quake and my belly tighten with building pressure.
Every time I try to chase more friction, to grind against that sinful mouth, one broad palm flattens across my stomach, pinning me down with effortless strength.
The heat of his hand brands me through the thin fabric.
“Stay still, solnyshko,” he murmurs against my drenched flesh, the vibration of his words making my walls flutter desperately. “Let me take care of you. Let me drown in this perfect pussy.”
“Maxim—” His name fractures on my tongue, half moan, half prayer.
“That’s it. Say my name. Let the whole fucking lake hear how good your stepbrother makes you feel.”
He feasts on me with patient, devastating thoroughness, tongue circling my swollen clit before dipping lower to push inside me, licking up every drop of arousal like he’s starving.
The praise never stops, each filthy word sinking into my skin and twisting the coil in my belly tighter. “So fucking wet for me. So sweet I could live between these thighs. You taste like heaven and sin, baby. That’s my girl. Just take what I give you.”
My fingers dive into his hair, tangling in the dark, silky strands, tugging hard enough to make him groan against me. The deep rumble sends a shockwave straight to my core, and I clench around nothing, aching, empty, desperate.
The boat sways with every shift of his powerful shoulders. Pine-scented wind off the shore cools the sweat beading on my exposed skin, but inside I’m burning, fever-hot and spiraling.
“Please,” I gasp, voice cracking. The need is a living thing clawing at my insides, sharp and insistent.
“Please what, solnyshko?” He pulls back just enough for me to see his lips glistening with my juices, eyes dark with lust and something deeper that makes my heart stutter. “Use your words. Tell me exactly how you want me to wreck you.”
“More. I need—fuck, I need you inside me.”
“I know exactly what this greedy cunt needs.” Two thick fingers slide into me without warning, stretching me open in one slow, deliberate thrust. The sudden fullness rips a broken cry from my throat; my back arches clean off the bench, every nerve singing.
He curls them perfectly, stroking that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids while his mouth seals over my clit and sucks hard.
The dual assault drags me to the edge so violently I can barely breathe.
His fingers pump steadily, slick sounds obscene in the open air, tongue relentless against my throbbing bundle of nerves.
That steady river of praise keeps pouring over me, low and filthy and perfect.
“Come for me, Wren. Let me feel this tight little pussy squeeze my fingers. Show me how hard your stepbrother can make you scream. Give it to me, baby. I want every drop.”
The orgasm crashes into me like a breaking wave—sharp, blinding, all-consuming.
I shatter with his name tearing from my lungs, echoing across the water in a raw, shameless cry.
My walls clamp down around his fingers in pulsing waves, fresh slick flooding his hand and chin as pleasure rips through every limb.
He doesn’t stop, working me through every aftershock with gentler strokes of his tongue and careful curls of his fingers, until the world blurs into soft heat and the gentle rock of the boat.
When I can finally focus again, he’s watching me with a look of pure, male satisfaction, lips shiny, beard damp, eyes gleaming like he’s won something precious.
“Beautiful,” he says, voice husky.
I’m still panting, chest heaving, thighs trembling around his shoulders. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you loved every filthy second of it, solnyshko.”
I can’t even argue. The boat rocks gently beneath us.
Water slaps the hull in lazy rhythm. Somewhere on shore, a guard stands watch, oblivious or maybe not.
And I just came apart in the middle of a sunlit lake while my stepbrother knelt between my spread legs and praised me into sweet, trembling oblivion with his mouth and fingers.
"What does that mean?"
"Little sun or sunshine."
Not one. Not two. All three of them—Lev’s quiet intensity, Kostya’s blunt hunger, and Maxim’s wicked charm—have burrowed under my skin, into my blood, until I crave them like air.
Is something broken in me for wanting my stepbrothers this desperately, this completely?
For letting them unravel me on a boat in broad daylight while armed men patrol the trees?
But if there is something wrong with me, why does every touch, every growled endearment, every shattering release feel so devastatingly, undeniably right?
The question lingers in my chest, warm and terrifying and perfect, as Maxim presses one last soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of my quivering thigh.