Chapter 12
KARINA
H e was right, although I hate admitting it.
I slept on the plane, so my first impression of Montenegro is a midnight-blue sky and the caress of a warm, salty breeze.
Whisked from the airport straight to a glittering clifftop resort and casino, I drift behind him, half dazed, convinced I’m dreaming.
It feels like stepping onto a movie set when the private elevator glides us to the penthouse with its sweeping sea view.
I cross the enormous room and slip through the open glass doors onto the balcony.
The sapphire night, the tang of the ocean, and the hush of waves far below intoxicate me.
I draw a long breath and roll my shoulders, trying to shake the stiffness of the flight.
I shrug off my sweater, as it’s far too warm for layers.
The soft breeze skims along my bare arms and flirts with the hem of my sundress.
Lights glitter in the marina below, and faint music drifts up from the docks.
I already love it here, even while a coiled part of me braces for my new husband’s next autocratic demand.
Leaving the reception so early stung, and he’s going to have to make that up to me.
Now that I’ve taken in the view, I notice the suite’s details.
There’s champagne on ice, tall ivory candles flickering, and a trail of rose petals leading deeper inside.
I kick off my heels and follow the crimson path, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet.
On the enormous bed, instead of the rose-petal heart I expect, lies the fur coat.
The same vintage sable from my photo shoot, satin-lined and luxuriously spread out for me.
I glance around, looking for him. Dmitry Petrov lounges in a chair, drink in hand, eyes fixed on me.
Unlike me, he hasn’t changed since the flight; the jacket and tie are gone, and his shirt gapes open at the collar.
I walk over, take his glass, and sip. The burn of the liquor slides down my throat as I reach for him.
He pulls me onto his lap, loosens my hairpins, and draws me down for a kiss.
I’m off balance. I expected him to demand acrobatic, no-holds-barred sex; instead, he kisses my mouth like it matters.
I may be merely a means to an heir, and to my father’s empire, but he kisses me as if I’m the woman he’s desperate to seduce.
“I’ve been dying without you,” he murmurs. “Two weeks? What were you thinking?”
“That you don’t own me and that I could make you wait.”
“Done waiting,” he says, his mouth hot on my neck.
He tugs the zipper down and slides the silky straps off my shoulders.
One hand on my back, he lifts me toward him and closes his eager mouth over my breast. I start to speak, but his other hand fondles and squeezes my second breast until my nipple puckers so tight it aches.
Fingers threaded through his hair, I cling to him, arching so he can take me deeper.
The scrape of his stubble is the perfect rough edge against his tender licks and sucks.
I rise onto my knees, straddling him in the chair.
The way he devours me, anchoring me to him, makes me wonder if we’ll even make it to the bed.
I’m already soaked, desperate for the main event.
He complained about two weeks apart, but I nearly lost my mind after two days.
Instead of cooling the chemistry, our frantic office hookup only stoked the fire.
“Every night,” I gasp when he moves his mouth from my nipple to my neck. I brace my arm on his shoulder to steady myself, “After we—” I keep losing my train of thought.
“After our meeting.” His sly smile brushes my skin.
“Yeah. That night I ran through every toy I own, and my collection is impressive, just to get off.”
“You couldn’t?” He gathers my long hair, holds it aside, and kisses the vulnerable curve of my neck.
“I could, but it wasn’t enough. None of it helped. You wrecked me,” I pant as he rolls and pinches my nipple with leisurely precision.
“Mmm, I like knowing I ruined you, that there isn’t a battery-operated toy in the world that can make you come the way I do. What was missing, though?” He nips at my throat. “Too small? No signature moves? Didn’t know when you needed to switch things up?”
“I don’t know,” I whimper, shifting restlessly in his lap.
“Let’s figure it out.” He shifts me to my feet and stands. In one fluid move, he strips my dress away, leaving me in nothing but panties. He backs me toward the bed with purposeful steps. I crawl onto it, but he shakes his head. “On the coat,” he orders. “Now.”
I scramble onto the thick, silky fur, reveling in the way it glides over my bare skin.
He shucks his shirt, then his belt, undressed before I finish squirming happily on the pelt.
I want to rub every inch of my body against it, but the sensation already heightens my sensitivity.
Rolling onto my stomach, I test how the fur feels against my nipples.
He climbs beside me, lying on his side to watch.
When I finally still and meet his gaze, he reaches out.
Dima captures my hand, holds it for a heartbeat, and searches my eyes.
“You’ve been aching for me this whole time.” His voice is low, certain. I can’t deny it. I only nod and lower my gaze, suddenly shy about admitting how even my toy collection failed me. “We can’t have that,” he adds.
He positions himself above me. He’s so broad, so overwhelmingly large that his sheer size intimidates me; thick forearms bracket my ribs as he blankets my body with his.
I’m not usually a woman who gets off on missionary, lying on my back and waiting to be bred, but my heart flips when he eases one knee, then the other, between my thighs.
Wordlessly, I spread for him. I’m his now; I knew exactly what I signed up for.
If I’m a little disappointed that he seems to want standard missionary and a baby, I refuse to show it. I stare past his shoulder and wait.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, and sits back on his knees. Bewildered, I search his face as he draws back.
“What?”
“You went somewhere. You weren’t with me anymore. You were waiting for it to be over. I thought I was clear the last time that I want an enthusiastic lover. A wife who is eager for me.”
“I am. I told you, I almost wish I hadn’t admitted how rough it was after that day, our meeting.
” I don’t know how to tip the power in my direction without lying about how desperately I want him.
After studying me for a long beat, he leans in, slides his right hand between my thighs, and drags his knuckles through the mess I’ve made of myself. I turn my head away.
“Look at me,” he commands.
He plants his palms on my thighs and strokes up and down.
Dmitry Petrov massaging my legs with a red-light-district intensity absolutely does it for me.
Some of the tension melts away as he shifts to the sensitive insides, each pass rhythmic, soothing, and wickedly tantalizing.
With every stroke he drifts closer to where I need him.
The anticipation is merciless, so I squeeze my eyes shut to punish him.
He retaliates by going utterly still, hands hovering just shy of my core.
I snap my eyes open, ready to protest, and find his gaze locked on mine.
His thumbs glide to the juncture of my legs.
Propping up on my elbows, I watch, spellbound.
Dima studies every reaction, his thumb tracing each curve and fold until I’m half-mad with need.
“Open for me, lisichka ,” he coaxes, his breath hot on my core. Little fox, he calls me. My knees fall open, my body yields to him at once. “Ah, so pretty.” He says.
Tiny strokes of his thumb glide along my slit from top to bottom, making my legs tremble.
Dima spreads his hand over my mound and presses, then drapes himself over me completely.
His body blocks the lamplight so that there’s only him, above me, around me, and every breath I draw tastes like him.
I wind my arms around his neck as he brushes his mouth over mine, teasing me with the kiss I crave.
“Fill me,” I demand, furious at his iron control.
I can see and feel how taut his body is, how hard he is for me.
Still, he won’t relent, won’t give either of us what we crave.
He merely licks the corner of my mouth, then eases out of reach.
I tug on him, trying to haul him closer, but he’s immovable.
So I lift my shoulders, bridge the gap, and claim his lips.
He grins against my mouth with pure triumph before letting me have his tongue.
I moan, tangling mine with his, drinking him in.
At last, breathless, I drop back to the mattress.
He follows, kissing me once more. I surrender to the luxury of those decadent kisses and the rough path of his fingers as they glide from the swell of my breast to the curve of my belly.
He seizes my hip, jerks me upward, and wraps my legs around his waist. I adjust, savoring how it feels to clamp him between my thighs.
He meets my gaze and, with a single thrust, breaches me with his thick cock.
Inch by inch he feeds it into me while I shake and stammer, begging even as I doubt I can take all of him.
My lips part on an awed “oh,” and I dig my nails into his shoulders to keep from floating away.
This is what it means to be the pakhan’s woman.
He gives me no quarter. I can’t catch a break, or a breath, because there he is, relentless, shoving deeper, stuffing me full.
I tear my gaze from his and look down at where we join.
It’s both impossible and the hottest sight I’ve ever seen.
He’s big by any standard, and although I’m not petite, I’m unaccustomed to a man of his sheer dimensions.
Everything about him is generous. My arousal pools around him, trickling down my thighs.
His velvety shaft is fever-hot when I reach down, finding it slick with my wetness.
I watch him tunnel into me. Tilting onto one hip gives him room to wedge even deeper.
My eyes roll back when he strikes the perfect spot inside me, and a short, high-pitched cry escapes before I can stop it.
There should be a neon sign flashing above me with an arrow pointing ’ there yes right there, more!
’ but my powers of speech have left me. He takes my idea one step further, loosening my right leg from around his hips and deftly lifting it until my ankle is braced on his shoulder.
He opens me this way. I hold my breath, wait to see if this will work.
I love watching him, the concentration on his chiseled face, the dark scruff outlining his jaw. In total control, he keeps still.
My body is completely out of my control.
My hips jerk, my legs shake, and my head tosses back and forth on the bed frantically.
I convulse around him as Dima thrusts into me, deep and full.
He sets a grueling pace, hard, fast, and relentless.
Still twitching from my orgasm, I reach for his face, urge him closer to me.
My legs are spread wide as I pull him down to kiss me.
He parts my lips, giving me his tongue and I arch into him with the pleasure of it.
I open my eyes, watching him as he kisses me.
I almost can’t bear the intimacy of it. I smile, catlike, and bite his lip.
He grips my thigh, thrusts harder. I’m saying ‘yes’ again and again, with every thrust as my body turns electric again, lighting up my senses.
He opens his eyes suddenly, his far-off gaze snapping to my face.
He bares his teeth, coiled power in every line of him, every movement.
“Mine,” he growls as he rams his cock home and empties inside me. My head goes back in ecstasy and as I climax again, he catches my nipple in his mouth, draws on it and sends an extra shock of hot bliss through me.
When he rolls off of me, I’m changed, and I can feel it. This was nothing like what we did in his office. That was a battle for power. This was, not a partnership, that sounds stupid, but it was proof of what we can do when we work with each other instead of against one another.
Beside me, Dima kisses my bare shoulder. I look at him and try to keep my expression from softening but it’s difficult. I’m thinking sappy, cliché things about how good we are together and it has to stop.
“That was a nice welcome to Montenegro,” I say as lightly as I can.
“Welcome to being a married woman,” he corrects.
“I liked this,” I tell him.
“The hotel room? The flowers?”
“The coat,” I reply with a sly smile, “and the fuck.”
“The minute I saw you in that coat I had to have it. Had to take you on top of it.”
“Most guys just toss down a towel,” I tease. “Not a Saks Fifth Avenue Russian-sable mink from the fifties.”
“I’m not fucking my wife on a towel,” he says. “I’ll lay you on silk sheets or a fur coat?—”
“Or bend me over a desk, although I wasn’t your wife then,” I remind him.
“I’ll still bend you over anything you like,” he promises.
“That’s a deal I’ll hold you to,” I warn.
“Did you promote your VP of operations?”
“What?”
“Not to change the subject, but did you restructure the leadership at your firm?”
“No,” I confess with a mischievous grin. “But you knew that already.”
“Of course I did,” he says, “but I was thinking of a compromise.”
“You? The great Dmitry Petrov will compromise with me? A lowly woman unfit to run any business?”
“Don’t say things like that. I already dislike your father enough as it is.” He grumbles, and I’m petty enough to enjoy that he holds a grudge against Dad on my behalf.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Perhaps you promote the VP and he can handle daily operations, but you create a CEO position for yourself in the process.”
“I could handle most of it remotely, from a home office,” I offer eagerly. He must know how much I want this.
“That works out well. We can set office hours for you, three days a week,” he says.
I grin, grab him by the collar, and kiss him.