Chapter 10 OKSANA
The suburbs don’t smell like New York. They smell like cut grass and money pretending to be air. His place rises out of the trees like it owns the street—glass and shadows, the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own pulse.
The gates slide shut behind us. I lean my head back and watch the sky peel itself into late afternoon. "I could get used to this," I say. "No sirens. No neighbors. Feels like the rest of the world fell quiet."
"Temporary illusion," he replies, getting out of the car. "You tired?"
"I need a computer, a gym, and a shower. In that order."
His eyes flick down to the bandage at my side. "No gym."
I roll my eyes. "What are you, my mother?"
"Worse," he says, smiling. "I’m your husband."
For a moment, I’m out of replies. He’s taking far too much joy in reminding me of my little fib. I narrow my eyes. "You know, most men wait at least a month before weaponizing the vows."
He smirks. "I’m efficient."
"Efficient," I echo, dry. "That’s what they call control issues these days?"
"Only when it’s not working."
I huff a laugh, even though it hurts my ribs. "You’re enjoying this."
"Immensely. I’ve never had a wife who argues this much."
"Lucky you. I’ve never had a husband who keeps score."
"Oh, I don’t keep score," he says. "I just like winning."
I glance at him, lips twitching. "You keep telling yourself that, Marito."
He glances sideways, mouth curving slowly. "Careful, Zhena. You’re starting to sound like you like me."
I turn to take in the park-like driveway before he can see the smile I don’t mean to give him. "Don’t get sentimental, Conti."
Inside, it's cooler than sin. He takes me downstairs in this all-polished-concrete-and-steel house. I’m greeted by giant, humming racks, screens bleeding data, and several men at the bottom of the stairs.
A war room under a house. It’s packed: analysts, coders, ghosts with lanyards.
Conversations stop just enough to register me.
"Everyone, this is my wife," he says, easy as a knife trick. "Wife, this is everyone."
I shake my head. "You’re enjoying this too much."
"Got to take joy where you can find it." He tilts his head and whispers wickedly, grinning. "Speaking of… how are you on your wifely duties?"
I arch a brow. "I’ll start by not poisoning your coffee."
Soft laughter ripples, and then we’re through a second door into a private office—soundproofed, cold, and beautiful. Two desks face each other across the space like a command bridge. The screens are sleeping for now, waiting to be awakened just like the keyboards.
"All yours," he says.
"And watched," I guess, scanning the corners. There’s a camera somewhere; there always is.
He shrugs, unapologetic. "I like to know who’s in my house. Are you going to tell me who you are, Mrs. Odd Jobs?"
I turn, lean my hip against the desk, and give him my best innocent smile. "Why, I am Mrs. Conti."
Something in him—some twin to my own wildness—surges up and breaks his self-discipline.
In two strides, he’s on me, a hand anchoring my waist, the other threading through the back of my hair, palm splayed across my scalp.
He pulls me in and kisses me so hard it’s almost violent, like he’s exorcising every moment of restraint he’s forced himself into since we met.
The taste of him is cold mint and sharp gin, but underneath is a raw, animal heat, one that ought to be regulated by law, or contained in a pressure vessel.
It’s ruining me in the best way, and I let it, for a beat, two, the universe contracts to just this moment.
He bites my bottom lip, not to draw blood, but to mark.
I want to slap him, I want to fuck him, I want to run.
I do none of those things. Instead, I let the chaos ride through me in a tidal wave, because for a second—just a second—I want to be the person who gets to lose control.
The person who gets to want and not be punished for it.
The thought annihilates me. My hands, which had balled into fists, open and flatten against his chest. For a sliver of time, we’re kissing like drowning people, desperate to steal air from each other's mouths, and it’s not romance, it’s survival.
But the moment passes, and I remember who I am.
My knee does too. I bring it up fast, sharp, and textbook, catching him right in the cock-and-balls.
He grunts into my mouth, the sound more surprise than pain at first, but as gravity takes over and the pain signals reach his brain, his hands jerk away and his body folds.
He goes down hard, clutching himself in a way that is both hilarious and tragic.
I step back, my chest still heaving, my lips swollen and alive, and I look down at him while he tries to remember how to breathe.
"Why?" he grits.
"Because you didn’t ask permission," I reply in a steady voice, in stark contrast with my erratic heartbeat, like I didn’t just try to murder his future children. Fuck me, but that was the hottest kiss I've ever had.
He wheezes, one eye squinting up at me, actually smiling through the agony.
"Worth it," he chokes out, then coughs, still doubled over on the tiles.
Slowly, he stands. Straightens. Closes in again, slower this time, eyes on mine like a question he intends to answer.
Just like before, he grabs me by the hips and pulls me forward, careful not to touch the spot where I was injured.
This time, my palms, my traitorous palms, grab his shirt, and I’m reconsidering every life choice that kept me from this earlier.
"Do you have a death wish?" I breathe against his mouth.
"No," he murmurs, smiling. "Just balls of steel."
I go to knee him again—pure reflex, pure fun—but he’s ready; he turns his hip, blocks, catches my wrist, and laughs low. The sound goes straight to places I’m not acknowledging.
He yanks me up and back with a fistful of my hair; his mouth is only inches from mine, so close, I feel his hot breath.
He’s not kissing, he is devouring, an open-mouthed climb down my throat with the edge of his teeth.
His hand snakes around the back of my neck and slides up, palm engulfing my jaw, his thumb presses into the hollow under my ear, just shy of pressure that would hurt.
A furnace knot of need ignites so deep in my belly I almost lose my balance. Fuck. He knows exactly what he's doing.
His other hand ghosts down my side, nails trailing behind.
Over my ribs, which flare like a lit fuse under his touch, and lower until he pulls my blouse out of my skirt, then under, his fingers finding the curve of my breast. He doesn’t grope, he claims. I exhale on a gasp.
My skin is hypersensitized; my nipples are already hard enough to cut glass.
I can barely keep up, but his lips are so fucking close I could taste the word please on his tongue if he let me.
He doesn't. He bites my jaw instead, hard—then pauses, lips a hair from mine, breathing me in.
"So," he whispers, smirk tickling at the corners of his mouth, "no kissing, am I remembering this right?"
My body wants to betray me, but I grind my teeth and keep my pride, somehow. "You have to ask," I manage, voice barely a whisper. "That's the rule."
His laughter is low and dirty, vibrating against my collar.
"All right then." He pulls the rest of my blouse out from where it’s been tucked into my waistband, and tugs until it exposes one breast, nipple straining through the thin mesh of my bra.
He doesn't even slow down—just bends and closes his teeth around the peak, dragging his tongue over the fabric; heat and friction all at once.
I hear the noise that comes out of my own mouth, somewhere between a moan and a war cry.
His left hand keeps a light pressure on my throat, not enough to choke, just enough to take away the option of moving, trapping me in the moment.
With his right, he hooks his thumb under the elastic of my bra and yanks, tearing the strap with one crisp motion.
The sound is sharper than a gunshot, and the universe shrinks to just that sensation, cotton, skin, his mouth.
He's got me bare, and I can't even muster a fuck to give about modesty, not with the way his lips fasten around my nipple and he sucks, teeth only barely threatening.
The pleasure is white-hot, messy, irrational. I can't breathe, but I don't want to.
He looks up once, eyes black with intent. "Still no kissing?"
"Shut up," I manage, and writhe against him, which he takes as full consent if not encouragement.
His hand slides down, tracing my spine, skimming the curve of my ass before hiking my skirt up to my hips.
I'm so wet it’s insane; I can feel it slick between my thighs, and he grinds his palm against the outside of my panties, hard enough to make the world flicker.
He holds my throat with a careful grip, fingers splayed, like he knows exactly how much it’ll take to scramble my brain. Then he brings his lips right to mine, so close our air is shared, but he doesn't connect. Instead, he lets his tongue flicker out, barely grazing the corner of my mouth.
"You like it when I do this, don't you?" he says, his voice is deadly serious despite the fact that he's got me pinned to a wall with one hand and my dignity at his mercy.
I should knee him again, punch him in the throat, knock his legs out from under him. Instead, I moan, "Yes, oh fuck, yes," because lying is no longer an option.
He presses me back, walking me blindly, and suddenly my ass is flush against one of the computer desks, and with a deftness that speaks of either practice or talent—maybe both—he swings me up and lays me flat.
He takes his time spreading my legs, pushes my panties to the side, and pauses.
The air is cool on my skin, and the tension is so traumatic it’s almost an emotion itself.
I hate him; I crave him. Two halves of me warring, neither winning.