Chapter 9 Katya
KATYA
My back presses against the wall, his body a cage around me.
I can feel every breath he takes, the heat radiating off him.
My pulse hammers in my throat.
This is insane.
This is the man who locked me up for a week.
The man who dragged me here at gunpoint.
The man who could snap my neck without breaking a sweat.
And I want him.
Holy fucking cow, do I want him.
My body is throbbing, my belly a puddle of hot goo, and he is insinuating that he wants me just as much.
But how can I trade my body like this?
He's wrong—I haven't fucked a man for information before.
But it's not like I've never had sex.
Just not in exchange for favors or "rewards", as he liked to call it.
His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
"You have not answered me, Katya."
I swallow hard.
My mind spins through every angle, every escape route I've ever learned.
It's one job.
That's all he's asking.
One job and I walk away clean.
No more locked rooms.
No more threats.
I go back to the streets, back to the life I know, back to freedom.
All I have to do is fuck him first.
"I…" My voice cracks.
I clear my throat and try again. "You're serious? One job and you let me go."
"I don't make promises I can't keep."
His eyes are so dark they're almost black, pupils blown wide in the low light of the room.
"Sleep with me. Help me finish this. Then you walk out that door and I never touch you again."
His hips shift forward, and I feel how hard he is pressed against my thigh.
A jolt runs through me and makes my legs feel weak.
My mouth goes dry.
This man is dangerous.
He's brutal and cold and everything my mother taught me to run from.
But my body doesn't care about any of that.
My body only knows the way his hand feels on my skin, the rough edge in his voice, the way he's looking at me now as though I'm the only thing in the world that can make his cock stand at attention.
"What if I say no?" I ask, hating how breathless I sound.
There's always an alternative too, a way to get what you want when you don't like the first set of conditions.
It's how I get things I want—negotiation.
I learned how to do it when I was only seven years old and my mother wanted me to go to bed on time.
I'd find the other options and apply gentle pressure until I got what I wanted.
This is no different.
It's the skill for which he, himself, is wanting me.
"Then you sleep in the guest bed."
His thumb drags across my lower lip, curling it downward slightly before letting it spring back up.
"And tomorrow, we find another way to make you useful."
His touch is so gentle, I'd almost think his body wasn’t attached to the same violent mind that I've seen control his men.
Another way?
I don't want to think about what that means.
What other ways could he find to make me useful?
And how many times would his men find ways to "use" me too?
It's frightening.
His other hand slides down my side, fingers splaying over my ribs.
I'm still wearing his shirt, the fabric thin and oversized, hanging off one shoulder.
He's barely touching me and my skin is already on fire.
"You are thinking too much," he murmurs, leaning closer.
His breath ghosts over my cheek, my jaw.
"I can see all those thoughts running through your head. Trying to find the trick. Trying to work out the con."
"There's always a con," I manage.
"Not this time." His nose brushes my temple.
"This time it’s very simple. You give me what I want. I give you what you want. No games."
My hands are flat against the wall behind me, frozen, every nerve alight, every muscle tense.
The pulses of electric current flowing just under my skin at his touch are erotic.
Never in my life have I been so turned on.
He could blow on my clit and I'd explode all over his fucking face.
Ever since he pinned me against the wall in his office the other day, I've had this ache building in my core, and fuck if I don’t want to just say yes.
It's just sex, right?
And then freedom…
His hand slides lower, skimming over my hip.
The shirt rides up and his fingers find bare skin.
I gasp before I can stop myself.
"You feel that?" His voice drops.
"Your body already knows the answer. You are just too stubborn to admit it."
I hate that he's right.
I hate the way my pulse races when he touches me.
I hate the heat pooling low in my belly, the way my thighs press together involuntarily.
I hate that this man—this violent, controlling man—can make me feel anything at all.
But I do feel it.
And he knows.
"Say yes, Katya."
His lips graze my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
"Say yes and I will make you forget every reason you came to Moscow in the first place. I will make you forget your own name."
My breath stutters.
His hand moves again, sliding around to the small of my back, pulling me closer.
The pressure of him against my thigh is unbearable now.
My body arches into him without permission, betraying me completely.
"You're beautiful," he says, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
"You are fierce and wild and I have wanted you since the moment I caught you in that stall trying to steal my horse."
His words sink into my chest, wrap around my ribs and squeeze.
I find my head arching back, my eyes fluttering shut as the sensations of arousal consume me.
My mouth is watering, my pussy probably dripping like fucking Kivach Falls.
"You don’t have to be afraid of me," he continues.
His hand moves up, fingers threading through my hair in a tight fist, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
"I will treasure you like the Hope Diamond, devour you like a feast for Novy Dod, and most importantly, worship your body like you are the Great Mother incarnate."
His breath is so hot against my skin, I'm melting.
I search his face, looking for the lie.
But there's nothing there except raw need and a darker desire under hooded eyelids.
His hips roll forward again and my knees almost buckle.
A sound escapes me—half gasp, half whimper—and his eyes flare.
"There it is," he whispers.
"There is the truth."
I can't think anymore.
I can't plan or scheme or calculate my odds.
All I can do is feel.
His hands on my body.
His breath on my skin.
The heat between us feels dangerous enough to burn.
He leans in, his mouth hovering over mine.
Not quite a kiss yet.
He's still waiting for me.
I don't know what possesses me.
Maybe it's the week in the tack room that broke me.
Maybe it's the exhaustion, the fear, the twisted relief of being clean and fed and safe for the first time in days.
Maybe it's the way he's looking at me now—not as a prisoner or a tool, but as a woman he actually wants.
Or maybe I'm just tired of running.
I close the distance.
My lips find his softly, tentatively testing the contact to see if the spark is there, and holy fuck, is it there.
He goes still for half a heartbeat.
Then his hand fists in my hair and he kisses me back—nothing at all like the gentle brush I gave him.
He devours me, parting my lips aggressively, searching my mouth while his body pins me to the wall.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are blazing.
"Is that your way of saying yes?" His voice is barely controlled.
I can't speak.
My heart is pounding too hard, my thoughts scattered. So I nod.
He doesn’t move for a heartbeat, just holding my hair tight, his eyes locked on mine.
“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
Something in his expression breaks.
His mouth crashes down on mine again, harder this time, while his hands drag the shirt up over my head and toss it aside.
Cold air hits my bare skin and I shiver.
He cups my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard peaks, then bends to take one into his mouth.
A gruff sound escapes me, half-moan, half-plea.
My fingers clutch his shoulders, digging into muscle as he sucks and bites.
Heat pools in my belly and spreads outward until I’m shaking with it.
He mutters something filthy in Russian against my skin and slides a hand down between my thighs, under the elastic of his boxers that are too loose on my hips.
His fingers find me, sliding through the slickness, teasing before slipping inside.
My breath catches, a strangled sound leaving my throat as he moves them in slow, deep strokes, curling just enough to make my hips press flat to the wall, the hard surface cold against my back as he holds me there.
His mouth never leaves my skin—he trails kisses from my breast to my collarbone, up the curve of my neck, until his lips brush my ear.
“Wet already,” he growls. “Your pussy is practically begging me for this, isn't it, Katya?"
I can’t answer.
All I can do is breathe his name as he pushes another finger inside me, his thumb finding that sensitive spot that makes the room disappear.
The sound of it—his fingers, my breath, his growl when I clench around him—fills the air.
He works me like he knows every part of me, and maybe he does.
His teeth catch on my shoulder as he drags his fingers faster, harder, until my whole body goes rigid.
“Come for me,” he whispers, the words broken by his breathing.
“Right here on my hand.”
It hits me fast, stealing the air from my lungs.
My back arches off the wall, my whole body trembling around his wrist as waves crash through me.
He keeps his fingers buried inside, driving them in shallow, rhythmic strokes that make me cry out again, until my thighs quiver and my vision goes hazy.
The pulse between my legs intensifies, throbbing harder each time he moves until I’m shaking uncontrollably, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.
He watches every second of it, breath coming in ragged bursts, his jaw tight with restraint.
Even as I gasp and clutch at his arms, begging silently for mercy, he doesn’t stop until the last tremor leaves me and I’m spent and trembling.
Only then does Dimitri slide his fingers out and drag them against my swollen ache before he pulls away.