Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Mila
The sound of tearing lace was the loudest thing I had ever heard.
It wasn't a rip; it was a detonation. It snapped the tension in the room, vibrating through the air and settling in the marrow of my bones.
I lay frozen on the grey sheets, my breath trapped in a chest that felt too small for my heart. My wrists were still pinned above my head by Theo’s massive hands. The ruins of my pink panties lay on the floor, discarded like a wrapper.
I was naked. Completely, terrifyingly exposed.
And Theo Volkov was looming over me like a storm front.
He was a landscape of violence and beauty.
His wet black hair dripped water onto my stomach—cold droplets that sizzled against my fever-hot skin.
His chest, broad and matted with dark hair, heaved with ragged breaths.
The geometric tattoos on his arm seemed to shift and writhe in the dim light, a map of darkness I was about to get lost in.
But it was his eyes that unmade me.
The grey was gone. His irises were swallowed by black, blown wide with a hunger so raw it felt like a physical weight. He wasn't looking at me like a roommate. He wasn't looking at me like a brat. He was looking at me like I was the only water in a desert, and he was dying of thirst.
"Theo," I whispered. My voice was a broken thing.
He released my wrists. I expected him to touch me—to grab, to take.
He didn't.
He planted his hands on the mattress on either side of my head, caging me. The muscles in his arms bunched, corded and hard as stone. He lowered his head until his nose brushed against mine.
"Breathe," he commanded.
His voice was a low rumble, vibrating directly into my skull.
I sucked in a jagged breath, smelling him. Soap. Rain. The metallic tang of adrenaline. And something muskier—the scent of a man who was fighting for control.
"You’re shaking," he murmured. He didn't sound mocking. He sounded… reverent.
"I’m cold," I lied.
"Liar."
He moved his head, dragging the stubble of his jaw down my neck. It scratched the sensitive skin, a delicious friction that made my toes curl.
"You’re shaking because you know," he whispered against the pulse point of my throat. "You know there is no going back after this. You know I’m going to ruin you for anyone else."
"Do it," I begged, arching my back. "Ruin me, Theo."
He pulled back, looking down at me again. His gaze dropped to my breasts, then lower, over the curve of my stomach, to the apex of my thighs where I was bare and vulnerable.
"Not yet," he said. "We don't rush. You’ve waited twenty-one years for this. We aren't going to finish it in five minutes."
He sat back on his heels, kneeling between my spread legs.
The space between us felt vast and cold without his body heat. I instinctively tried to close my legs, a reflex of modesty that I couldn't suppress.
Theo’s hands shot out. He gripped my knees—firmly, not painfully—and pushed them back open. Wide.
"Open," he ordered. "Let me see you."
I squeezed my eyes shut, a hot flush burning my cheeks. "Theo, please. It’s… embarrassing."
"Nothing about you is embarrassing," he said. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles into the inside of my knees. "Look at me, Mila."
I shook my head.
"Look at me," he repeated. It was the Voice. The Captain’s voice. The one that made three hundred pounds of defensive linemen fall into line.
I opened my eyes.
He was staring at the place where I was most vulnerable. His expression was intense, clinical, and possessive.
"Pink," he murmured, his voice thick. "So perfect. Untouched."
He looked up at my face.
"You tried to sell this," he said, his voice hardening slightly. "On a pool table. To a stranger."
"I was drunk," I defended weakly. "I was angry."
"You were lost," he corrected. "But you aren't lost anymore. You’re right here. In my bed. And this..."
He released one of my knees to touch me. Just one finger. He traced the slit of my sex, sliding through the slickness there.
I gasped, my hips bucking off the mattress.
"This belongs to me," he finished.
He didn't give me time to process the claim. He leaned forward, gripping my thighs, and lowered his head.
When his mouth touched me, the world went white.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't the clumsy fumbling of the college boys I had let get to second base in the back of a car. It was masterful.
His tongue was broad and hot. He licked me—a long, slow stroke from bottom to top—that felt like he was tasting a five-course meal.
"Oh god," I cried out, my hands flying back to grip the sheets. "Theo!"
He didn't stop. He settled in. He used his tongue to part me, exploring every fold, every nerve ending. He found the small, hard nub of my clitoris and swirled around it, teasing, taunting.
I was a mess. I was writhing, my head tossing from side to side on the pillow. The sensation was overwhelming. It was too much, and not enough.
"Quiet," he growled against my thigh.
"I can't," I sobbed. "It feels… it feels…"
"Good?" He blew hot air against me. "Tell me."
"It feels good," I whimpered.
"Good girl."
The praise hit me harder than the physical sensation. Good girl. It bypassed my brain and went straight to my core. It made me want to be good for him. It made me want to give him everything.
He increased the pressure. He began to suck, creating a rhythm that matched the blood pounding in my ears. His stubble grazed my inner thighs, raw and abrasive against the softness. His hands were iron clamps, holding me still, keeping me wide open for his feast.
I was unraveling. The tension in my belly was winding tighter and tighter, a coiled spring ready to snap.
"Theo, I’m close," I panicked. "I’m… I’m going to…"
"Let go," he commanded. He slid two fingers inside me.
The stretch was shocking. I was tight. So tight.
He groaned, the sound vibrating against my skin. "Fuck, you’re small."
He pumped his fingers—slow, deep thrusts—while his tongue continued its relentless assault on my clit.
It was a dual attack I had no defense against.
My breath hitched. My vision blurred. A wave of pleasure crashed over me, starting in my toes and rushing up to my chest.
"Theo!" I screamed.
I shattered.
My body convulsed, clamping down around his fingers. I was flying. I was drowning. I was seeing stars behind my eyelids.
He didn't stop. He stayed right there, drinking me down, swallowing my cries, absorbing my tremors until the last aftershock faded.
Only then did he pull back.
He moved up my body, crawling over me like a jungle cat. His face was wet. He looked savage.
He kissed me. He tasted like me. It was the most intimate, erotic thing I had ever experienced.
"You taste like sugar," he rasped against my mouth. "Addictive."
I was boneless. Melted. I couldn't move if I wanted to.
"Theo," I whispered, my hand coming up to touch the scar on his eyebrow. "Are we… is that it?"
He laughed. A dark, low sound.
"Malyshka," he said, pressing his forehead to mine. "That was the warmup."
He pulled back, sitting up on his knees. He looked down at himself.
He was wearing hockey compression shorts—black, tight, and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. The bulge beneath the fabric was terrifying. It was thick, heavy, and straining against the waistband.
He shoved the shorts down.
My eyes widened.
He wasn't just big. He was… architectural. Thick, veined, and angry.
I swallowed hard. "That… isn't going to fit."
"It will," he promised. "You’re wet. You’re ready. Biology is on our side."
He reached for the nightstand. He opened the drawer.
He stopped.
He looked at me. His hand hovered over the box of condoms I assumed was in there.
"Are you on birth control?" he asked. His voice was clinical, but his eyes were feral.
"Yes," I whispered. " The pill. Since I was eighteen. For my skin."
Theo stared at me. He looked at the drawer. Then he looked at me again.
He slammed the drawer shut.
My heart skipped a beat.
"Theo?"
"I can't," he grated out. "I can't put a barrier between us. Not tonight. Not for this."
He moved over me, spreading my legs wider with his own. He settled his hips between mine. The tip of him brushed against my entrance.
It was hot. Scalding hot.
"I need to feel you," he whispered, bracing his weight on his forearms so he didn't crush me. "Every inch of you. I need to know exactly when I’m inside."
"Okay," I breathed. "Okay."
He looked into my eyes. "This is going to hurt, Mila. Just at first. I’ll stop if you tell me to. But you have to tell me."
"Don't stop," I said. "Just… be with me."
"I’m right here."
He pushed forward.
He entered me slowly. The pressure was immense. It felt like I was being stretched apart.
I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Relax," he murmured, kissing my forehead, my eyelids, my nose. "Breathe into it. Make room for me."
He pushed harder.
A sharp, stinging pain tore through me.
I whimpered, my body tensing.
Theo froze immediately. He was buried maybe an inch.
"Shh," he soothed. "I know. I know it hurts. Look at me."
I opened my eyes. They were swimming with tears.
"You’re okay," he said intensely. "You’re doing so good. You’re so brave."
Praise. It was the antidote to the pain.
"It hurts," I sniffled.
"I know, baby. I know. But the pain means I’m breaking the barrier. It means you’re letting me in."
He leaned down and kissed me softly. "Can I keep going?"
I nodded against the pillow. "Yes. Please. Just… fill me."
He groaned at the words. He gripped my hips, anchoring me. And then, with one smooth, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
I screamed. It was a cry of pain, shock, and fullness.
He filled me completely. There was no space left. I felt stretched, full, possessed.
Theo held perfectly still. He was breathing hard, his jaw clenched tight, a vein pulsing in his forehead. He was fighting every instinct to move, giving my body time to adjust to the intrusion.
"Look at you," he whispered, looking down at where our bodies were joined. "You took it all. My brave girl."
The pain began to fade, replaced by a dull, throbbing fullness that was starting to feel… right.
"Theo," I whispered. "Move."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Please."
He pulled back, almost all the way out, then thrust back in.
This time, it wasn't pain. It was friction. It was heat.
"Oh," I breathed.
He set a rhythm. Slow. Deep. Methodical.
He wasn't fucking me. He was owning me.
Every thrust was a statement. Mine. Mine. Mine.
He watched my face the entire time. He watched my eyes roll back. He watched my lips part. He watched the flush spread across my chest.
"You like that?" he growled, his voice rough with strain.
"Yes," I panted. "Yes, yes."
"Tell me who I am."
"Theo," I moaned.
"No," he corrected, driving deep and hitting a spot that made my vision white out. "Who am I?"
"The Tsar," I gasped.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You," I cried. "I belong to you."
"Good girl."
He picked up the pace. The slow rhythm vanished, replaced by a primal, desperate need. The bed frame knocked against the wall. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. I couldn't get enough. I wanted him to merge with me. I wanted him to leave a piece of himself inside me so I would never be empty again.
"Mila," he roared, his control snapping.
He grabbed my hands, pinning them to the mattress again. He pounded into me, hard, fast, unyielding.
I was falling apart again. The pleasure was building so fast it was terrifying.
"Theo, I’m… I’m…"
"Come for me," he ordered. "Come on my cock, Mila. Do it."
I exploded.
It was more violent than the first time. It was a full-body seizure of pleasure. I screamed his name, arching my back off the bed, clutching at him.
Theo followed me seconds later.
He went rigid. He groaned—a deep, animalistic sound torn from his chest. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and held there.
I felt him pulsing inside me. Warm. Liquid.
He collapsed on top of me.
His weight was heavy, crushing, and perfect.
We lay there in the tangle of limbs and sweat, our hearts hammering against each other’s ribs like they were trying to sync up.
The room was silent, except for the sound of our ragged breathing.
I stared up at the ceiling. The grey concrete looked different now. It didn't look cold. It looked like shelter.
Theo shifted. He didn't pull out. He rolled to his side, taking me with him, keeping us connected. He draped his leg over mine, his arm wrapping around my waist like a steel band.
He buried his face in my neck. He kissed the damp skin there.
"You okay?" he mumbled against my skin.
"I think I’m dead," I whispered. "I think you killed me."
He chuckled, the vibration running through my chest. "Then we’re ghosts."
He pulled back slightly to look at me. He reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair off my forehead.
His eyes were soft again. The black had receded, leaving a clear, stormy grey.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his brow furrowing with worry.
"Only at first," I promised. "It was… perfect, Theo."
He kissed my nose. "You were perfect."
He shifted again, finally pulling out. The loss of him was an immediate ache. I felt empty. Cold.
"Stay here," he said.
He got up. He walked to the bathroom, unabashedly naked. I watched him go. His back was broad, tapering to a narrow waist and powerful glutes. He was magnificent.
He came back a moment later with a warm, wet washcloth.
He knelt between my legs again.
"Theo, I can do it," I said, trying to sit up.
"Lie down," he said gently. "I’ve got you."
He cleaned me. He wiped away the sweat, the fluids, the blood. He was so gentle, so focused. It was the most intimate act of the entire night.
When he was done, he tossed the cloth into the hamper and climbed back into bed.
He pulled the duvet up over us, cocooning us in warmth. He pulled me against his chest, my back to his front, spooning me. His arm wrapped around me, his hand resting flat on my stomach.
"Sleep," he whispered into my hair.
I closed my eyes. I felt safe. I felt cherished.
But as the adrenaline faded and the reality of the dawn crept closer, a cold knot of fear formed in my stomach.
I listened to Theo’s breathing slow down as he drifted off.
I love him.
The thought wasn't a whisper; it was a scream.
I loved him. I loved the way he protected me. I loved the way he challenged me. I loved the way he touched me.
And that was a disaster.
Because Theo Volkov didn't do love. He did contracts. He did deals. He did discipline.
We had just broken every rule in the book. And when the sun came up, I knew the penalty for breaking the rules was going to be my heart.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my hand over his where it rested on my stomach.
For tonight, I was his.
Tomorrow, I would have to figure out how to survive being in love with a man who was leaving in four months.