Chapter 13 #2
"But I do." My voice cracks slightly. "I can't—I can't be the reason more of your people die, Andrei. I can't live with that."
It’s not a lie. That part isn’t. Every time I realize that more men have died because of this, I can feel a part of me breaking.
I can feel the way I’ve always looked at the world disintegrating with every death, every day I stay here, every time Andrei and I touch like this.
He’s remaking me, and I don’t want it. I don’t want to become a different person because of this.
He stares at me. I can see him fighting it. Fighting the logic, fighting the emotion, fighting me. I kiss him again, harder this time, more desperate. My body presses fully against his, my hands pulling him closer, everything in me focused on breaking down his resistance.
"Please," I breathe. "Trust me."
His hands slide up my back, into my hair, and he kisses me like he's trying to consume me. Like if he kisses me hard enough, I'll stop asking, stop pushing. Stop making him want things he knows are dangerous.
Things that I know are dangerous, too.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. "One meeting," he says. His voice is rough, strained. "It will be a neutral location, with my men everywhere. At the first sign of trouble, we leave. Understood?"
Relief floods through me so intensely I feel dizzy. I can’t believe this worked. "Understood."
"And if this goes wrong—if your father tries anything—"
"He won't."
"If he does," Andrei continues, his grip on my hair tightening, "you do exactly what I tell you. No questions. No arguments. You trust me to get you out safely."
I nod, forcing myself to speak. My heart is pounding. "I do trust you."
He searches my face like he's looking for the lie. I keep my expression calm, so he sees nothing. So he doesn’t see that right now, I have no one that I feel I can trust at all.
The thought dissolves the desire that was building in me. But I don’t let go of him, because I need him to believe me. And if I let go now, he’ll know this was all a ruse.
"I'll make the arrangements," he says finally, releasing me. His hands drop to my thighs, and I can feel the heat in his palms against my skin. My dress has slid up to the very tops of my legs, and I feel exposed. "It'll take a day or two to set up properly."
"Thank you,” I whisper. My fingers curl into his shirt, and his hands slide higher, beneath my dress as he leans in, capturing my lips again.
I thought I would have to force myself to kiss him back. But as much as I’m his weakness, he’s become mine. The slide of his tongue against my lower lip sends heat searing through my body, and my hips rock forward without my meaning for them to, grinding against the thick ridge of his cock.
He groans, one arm going around me as he pulls me forward, crushing my chest against his.
His fingers dig into the side of my waist as his other hand drops to his zipper, feverishly working to free his cock as his tongue slides into my mouth, devouring me.
In the space of a breath, I feel the heat of his rigid length against my belly as he frees himself, and then he jerks my panties to one side, lifting me just enough to press the head of his cock against my entrance.
And then his hands grip my hips and he yanks me all the way down his shaft, burying himself inside me in one rough thrust.
I cry out at the sensation, pain and pleasure tearing through me in one swift jolt.
I feel the stretch of his cock, the rough friction of his piercings, and he fills me up so completely that it makes me gasp.
I’ve never been so full, had so much in me all at once.
He holds me down on him, hips rocking up into me as he licks and bites at my lower lip, his breathing harsh and ragged.
“Mine,” he growls against my mouth. “You were made for my cock, ptitsa. Feel how perfectly you fit? Fuck, it’s so good.”
His hips jerk with every word, as if he could bury himself deeper. As if he wants to keep me pinned there, captive on his length, impaled on him, more than he wants to fuck me. As if the sensation of being buried inside of me is better than anything else he could ever have.
One hand slides between my thighs, fingers pressed to my abdomen as he presses the heel of his hand against my clit.
He rocks against me, roughly, pushing his hand onto my clit with each movement, the sharp friction combined with the breath-stealing sensation of his cock filling me pushing me to the edge faster than I could have ever imagined.
“You got what you wanted,” he growls, fingers digging into my hip as he grinds against me.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, little bird, coming in here, squirming on my lap, teasing me with this sweet pussy.
Now you’re going to get fucked. But you’re going to come on my cock first. Give it to me, ptitsa. ”
There’s no possible way I could deny him. Not like this, not when it’s so good. Tears blur my vision from the sensations, from how intense it all is. It’s too much, but he’s not going to stop, and I don’t want him to.
I’m going to come. I can’t breathe. My thighs tighten, my back arches, the steady friction from his hand and the rub of his piercings inside of me giving me no quarter, no way to fight the pleasure even if I wanted to.
The sensation blurs my vision, makes me cry out, and then I feel myself shatter, the climax ripping through me in waves that don’t stop.
His hand rubs harder, faster, the orgasm almost painful in its intensity, and I clench around him, gripping the thick length of his cock in a vise.
He groans, the sound pained, too. As if I’m so tight around him already that the force of my orgasm hurts him and feels good at the same time. His hand jerks away from my clit, both hands grabbing my hips, and he raises me off of his cock as if I weigh nothing at all.
Then he brings me back down, hard.
His jaw is tight, his eyes dark, hungry with a lust that would be frightening if this didn’t all feel so good.
He uses me like a doll, fucking me on his cock as his arms flex, muscles tight as he lifts me and brings me down again and again.
He leans back, his gaze fixed between us, where his cock impales me in a brutal rhythm that has all the breath sucked from my lungs.
“Andrei… Andrei please…” I moan, clutching at him as he fucks me, unsure of what I’m begging for.
I don’t want him to stop, but it’s so much.
His size, the sensation, all of it… it feels as if my orgasm never quite stopped, as if the overstimulation is elongating it into something never-ending.
My body feels like a raw nerve, and my thighs splay open, my back arching as he brings me down onto him with each rough thrust.
His hips jerk up, as if he can’t wait any longer between strokes.
As if the time between when he lifts me to the tip of his cock and brings me back down is too much to wait to be sheathed in me again.
His breathing comes rough and fast, his jaw clenched, and I can see sweat beginning to stick his shirt to his chest.
I’ve never seen anything so feral or devastatingly beautiful.
I twist my hands in his shirt, moan helplessly, and he drags me down once more, holding me against him as if he can’t get close enough as he groans and pitches forward, burying his mouth against the crook of my neck as I feel him start to come.
Heat fills me, and I can feel myself starting to come again, too, another small orgasm on the heels of what came before.
For several long moments, all I feel is pleasure, the twitching and throbbing of his cock inside of me as he spurts, the flutter of my body around him as we cling to each other, breathing hard.
And then he lets go of me abruptly, almost pushing me off his lap as he turns away, his jaw tight. I stumble, feeling the hot trickle of his cum on the inside of my thighs, still breathless.
“Get out,” he growls.
“The meeting—”
“You’ll get your meeting.” A muscle leaps in the side of his cheek. “Go.”
Without another word, I flee the room.
—
Two days later, I'm in the back of Andrei's car, watching the city slide past the tinted windows. My hands won't stop shaking. I clasp them together in my lap, trying to be calm, like I'm not terrified it's going to end in disaster.
Andrei is sitting beside me, silent and tense. He's armed—I can see the gun holster under his jacket—and his jaw is tight. Two of his men are in the front seat. Three more follow in a car behind us.
"The location is secure," Andrei says without looking at me. "Warehouse district. My men have been watching it for twenty-four hours. No signs of surveillance or setup."
"Okay."
"Your father agreed to come alone. Just him and one bodyguard."
"He will." I try to sound certain. "He wants to see me. He'll follow the rules."
Andrei doesn't respond.
The silence stretches. I watch the buildings get older, more industrial as we drive.
We're heading into a part of the city I don't recognize.
Somewhere far from the polished glass towers of my normal life.
"If anything feels wrong," Andrei says quietly, "you get behind me immediately.
Don't think. Don't hesitate. Just move."
"Nothing's going to go wrong."
"Liesl." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are hard and cold. "Promise me."
I bite my lip and nod. "I promise."
He nods once and turns back to the window.
My chest tightens. I don’t want to think about these things.
I don’t want to be a person who walks into a meeting with my father believing that it’s going to go wrong—that he would do anything to harm me or lessen his chances of getting me back.
It’s as if a shadow has been cast over the sunshine that has filled my whole life, and I hate it.