25. Vladimir
Vladimir
Ioriginally went outside to check on Luna.
I figured she might want some time to herself with Nova, so I gave her space. It wasn’t easy, though. The longer I stayed away, the more restless I became. Every second I wasn’t near her felt like torture.
To distract myself, I wandered the property, taking in the sprawling views and mentally cataloging every security detail. I even tried calling my brother, needing something—anything—to occupy my mind.
Predictably, he declined the call.
A moment later, my phone buzzed with a text:
Dima: You must not be getting laid if you have time to call me every five minutes.
Dima: Tell my new sister to put us all out of our misery and break your dry streak.
Dima: And don’t come back until you guys duck
Dima: *Duck
Dima: **FUCK
Dima: ducking autocorrect
Dima: I give up.
He wasn’t wrong.
But the problem wasn’t my lack of sex.
No.
The problem was I hadn’t even looked at another woman—let alone touched one—since I decided Luna was mine.
And when I finally saw her stretched out by the water in that sorry excuse for a bathing suit, my patience snapped.
The possessive rage that coursed through me was immediate, primal.
The very idea of another man’s eyes on her—roaming over the curves that belong to me—made me want to kill.
Not just gouge their eyes out.
I’d make them suffer for daring to look at what’s mine.
But it wasn’t just jealousy fueling the fire.
It was her.
She was sitting there in that deep green bikini—sinful didn’t even begin to cover it. Against her now sun-kissed skin, the fabric clung like it had been painted on, an obscene display of temptation that dared the world to look—and suffer.
And her eyes—fuck, her eyes.
Those molten brown irises had shifted under the Bali sun, now lit with a hazel glow, like gold had melted just to reflect inside her gaze.
Her breasts were perfect—just enough to fill my palms, to worship with my mouth, my tongue, my teeth. But it was her thighs and that fucking ass that made my control slip—thick, strong, unapologetically feminine. They weren’t built for weakness.
They were built to destroy.
My mind betrayed me instantly—picturing myself on my knees before her, hands clamped tight around those thighs, face buried where she was softest, tasting her until my name was the only thing she could remember how to say.
And then there were the tattoos—pure, artistic torment.
Ink curled and laced over her skin in intricate patterns that begged to be followed, savored. I wanted to trace every line with my mouth, make her shiver with each slow pass of my tongue, memorize every mark until I could redraw her from memory.
But the piercings?
Those were my undoing.
The nose and belly button rings were sexy—edgy and effortless in the way only she could pull off. But the nipple piercings?
Her bikini top was criminally thin. Her already peaked nipples pressed against the fabric, the faint outline of the bars beneath teasing me, tormenting me, wrecking what little restraint I had left.
My cock throbbed hard, painful, straining against the fabric of my shorts with the force of everything I couldn’t yet have.
I clenched my fists at my sides, every muscle in my body taut as I fought to keep myself in check.
She had no idea what she was doing to me, lounging there so casually, oblivious to the storm she’d unleashed.
She had me on the edge of madness.
I had to walk away before I did something I’d regret—like fuck her senseless right there on the beach for anyone to see.
The restraint it took to leave her lounging in that bikini felt superhuman.
When I returned to the villa, I was wound so tight I couldn’t even think straight.
Two cold showers later—yes, two—I was still on edge.
My cock throbbed with unrelenting need, and every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was her stretched out on the sand—those curves, those tattoos, those piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
I gave in.
Like some hormone-driven teenager, I found myself leaning against the shower wall, jacking off to the memory of her.
The way her skin glistened in the sun.
The way her hair fell over her shoulders.
The way her bikini barely contained her.
I couldn’t stop the images flooding my mind—her moans, her hands clawing at me, her legs wrapped tight around my waist as I lost myself in her.
When I finally came, shuddering and cursing her name, it only offered a temporary reprieve.
Because I wanted the real thing.
Now, I stand on the balcony outside the library, watching her from afar.
She’s by the pool, Nova at her side, her laugh carrying on the breeze and hitting me like a punch to the gut.
She’s radiant, and her movements are so natural and carefree.
My hands grip the railing tightly as I try to calm the storm raging inside me.
Dinner is only a few hours away, and I’m unsure how I’ll make it through the evening.
Sitting across from her, watching her lips move as she speaks, imagining how they’d feel wrapped around my cock?—
It’s going to be hell.
I want to see her tremble beneath me.
I want to ruin her.
But at the same time, I want to worship her.
I want to hear my name fall from her lips like a prayer.
And fuck, I don’t know if I have the patience to wait much longer.
"She’s late."
I check my watch. 7:17 PM.
Nova sits beside me at the bottom of the staircase, her large brown eyes flickering between me and the landing above. She must sense my irritation—or maybe she knows that waiting for my wife is a dangerous game.
And then, finally, she appears.
Luna descends the stairs like she owns the entire fucking world, her bare feet silent against the polished hardwood.
My breath catches in my throat, and I feel utterly unprepared for the first time in a long time.
She’s wearing a powder-blue two-piece skirt set. The top is a halter, wrapping around her neck and stomach bare, the soft fabric hugging her curves like a second skin. The long skirt flows with each step, the slit running up her thigh offering just enough of a glimpse to drive me insane.
The gold ankle bracelets on both feet, matching the delicate gold rings woven into her braids, the small hoop in her nose—everything about her is designed to test my patience.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs, stopping just short of me, her full lips curving into a slow, satisfied smile.
"It was worth it," she says, tilting her head slightly, daring me to challenge her.
I don’t bother hiding my smirk. "You think so?"
Her eyes flicker with amusement. "I know so."
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I let my gaze drag over her.
Slow.
Intentional.
Possessive.
"I should teach you a lesson," I murmur, thick with promise.
Luna arches an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Oh? And what exactly did I do wrong?"
I stand, closing the distance between us in two slow strides.
She doesn’t back away. Doesn’t flinch.
She holds my gaze, completely unaffected by the storm brewing inside me.
“I told you to be on time,” I say simply.
Her lips curve. "Poor baby."
Without thinking, my hand snakes around her waist, gripping her lower back as I press our bodies together. She gasps just slightly, and I relish the sound.
"You’re getting too comfortable," I murmur against her ear, letting my fingers skim the bare skin just above the waistband of her skirt. "I should bend you over this staircase, spank that pretty ass—just to remind you who's in control."
Her breath hitches, and I feel the way her body tenses in my hold—not with fear, but with anticipation.
"And yet," she whispers, brushing her lips against my jaw, "you won’t."
Fuck.
I exhale sharply, my grip tightening for a second before pulling back.
"We’ll see how you feel about that by the night’s end, Lisichka.”
Her smirk widens as she takes my hand, leading me toward the dining area like she’s in charge here.
She didn’t freak out when I touched her without her permission, so I’ll take that as progress.
I try to focus, but the way she moves—the sway of her hips, the brush of her bare feet against the floor, the golden accessories jingling softly with each step—is fucking impossible to ignore.
I force my mind back to the evening I planned.
A private dinner on the villa’s patio, a secluded paradise surrounded by lush greenery overlooking the ocean.
A table set with white linen, candles flickering in the warm evening breeze.
The soft glow from the lanterns around the deck casts everything in gold and amber.
The scent of the sea mixes with the aroma of freshly prepared food—grilled lobster, seared scallops, saffron rice, roasted vegetables, and a chilled bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild.
A meal meant to impress.
But nothing here outshines her.
Luna slows as she takes it all in.
Her fingers graze the table’s edge, eyes scanning the intimate setup before flicking back to mine.
"You did all this?"
I smirk, pulling out her chair. "I have my moments."
She studies me momentarily before slipping into the seat, the soft candlelight dancing in her brown-gold eyes.
"You're going all out, huh?" she muses, picking up her wine glass and swirling the deep red liquid.
I take my seat across from her. "I don’t half-ass things. Especially when it comes to my wife."
She snorts, raising an eyebrow. "You say that like I had a choice."
I smirk. "You did."
She levels me with a flat look. "You blackmailed me into this marriage, Vladimir."
I lift my glass, unbothered. "Tomato, to-mah-to."
She blinks. "Did you just?—?"
I sip my wine, giving her an easy grin. "Would you rather I used force, wife?”
Her nostrils flare, and I swear I see when she contemplates launching her fork at me.
Instead, she leans back, sipping her wine with an exaggerated slowness, eyes locked onto mine. "I should stab you again."
I chuckle, slicing cleanly into my lobster. “Mmm. You do that, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Across the table, her smirk is nothing short of sinful. “Is that a threat?”
I chew slowly, savoring the buttery richness before swallowing. Then I lean in, dropping my voice just enough to stroke the edges of her spine with sound.
“No, printsessa. That’s a promise.”
She tilts her head, feigning innocence, though there’s nothing innocent about the glint in her eye. “Princess? What happened to Lisichka?”
Her pronunciation is a little off, but hearing my mother tongue from her mouth? It’s erotic.
I set my glass down and lean forward, letting my gaze drag over her face like a caress. “Have I not treated you like a princess, wife?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes a slow sip of her wine, lips wrapping around the rim with devastating precision. Her throat bobs as she swallows, and I track the movement like a starving man.
She sets the glass down and, just to test me, licks the last drop from her bottom lip.
“It could be worse,” she muses, voice casual. “What exactly do I mean to you, Vladimir?”
The way she says my name—drawn out, deliberate, wrapped in honey and venom—makes my cock twitch under the table.
I take my time answering, cutting another bite of lobster and slipping it between my lips. I chew. Swallow. Let the silence stretch long enough to make her impatient.
Then, I smirk. “You really want the truth?”
Her brow lifts. “Always.”
I swirl my wine, letting it coat the glass like I want to coat her—slow, consuming, inevitable.
"Fine," I say, voice dipping an octave, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "You’re my obsession."
She stills.
“My addiction,” I continue. “The thing I can’t stop craving even when I know it’ll ruin me.”
There’s a shift in her posture. Her breath catches. Just enough for me to notice.
"You make me reckless, Luna. Unhinged. You make me want to toss every Bratva rule out the window and spend the rest of the night on my knees, worshipping you like the Goddess you are."
Her lips part. Her hand tightens around the base of her wineglass.
"But," I add, dragging the word out slowly, “you made it very clear the other night—you didn’t want me to touch you. Ever again.”
I lean back in my chair, smiling like a devil at confession. “I’m respecting your wishes, Lisichka. So tonight, I won’t lay a finger on you.”
She blinks. “You’re serious.”
“Oh, dead serious,” I murmur, gaze locked on her. “You’re going to sit through this entire dinner knowing I could take you right now—bend you over this damn table, fuck you until your voice breaks—but I won’t.”
Her thighs shift beneath the table.
“Because you said no,” I add, softer now, the heat thick between us. “And I’m a man of my word.”
She swallows, hard.
I pick up my glass, sipping slowly, savoring the sight of her unraveling. “Enjoy your meal, Lisichka,” I purr.
She glares, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
And I smile.