Chapter 6 – Timofey
I’ve faced gunfights. Betrayals. Power struggles that turned brothers into enemies overnight.
None of that feels as dangerous as this.
Valeria Petrova is in my arms.
And I’m kissing her like I’ve lost control.
The tension between us has been building since the moment she walked into Mike’s office—sharp words, defiance, that fire in her eyes that refuses to bend. It was supposed to be strategy. Survival. A problem to solve.
Somewhere along the line…it became something else.
Something complicated.
Something reckless.
I know I should stop.
She’s a responsibility. An assignment. A variable I’m supposed to control, not…this. Letting anything personal bleed into this situation is a mistake. One that could cost more than I’m willing to lose.
But she doesn’t pull away.
If anything, she leans in.
There’s determination in the way she holds onto me, in the way she meets me without hesitation, without fear. It’s not softness. It’s not surrender.
It’s choice.
And that—
That’s what pushes me over the edge.
Because this isn’t desperation.
This is intent.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And she’s choosing it anyway.
My grip tightens around her instinctively, like letting go isn’t even an option anymore. My mind is still screaming at me to stop, to step back, to remember what this is supposed to be.
But my body doesn’t listen.
Neither does hers.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not thinking about strategy.
I’m not thinking about consequences.
I’m just reacting.
The air in the room is thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a storm. Every instinct honed over years in the underworld is screaming danger, yet I find myself leaning into the heat of it.
Valeria’s fingers find the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to demand more. It’s a challenge. A claim. She’s staring into the abyss of who I am, and she isn’t blinking.
I’ve spent my life being a weapon, a cold instrument of the Rusnak empire.
But under her touch, the ice is fracturing.
My pulse, usually a steady, icy rhythm, is a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.
I can taste the faint hint of defiance on her lips, a combination more intoxicating than any drug I’ve ever been offered.
I break the kiss just long enough to look at her, my breathing shallow and jagged. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen from my mouth, but her gaze remains sharp. She isn’t a victim of this moment; she’s the architect of it.
“You have no idea what you’re playing with, Valeria,” I rasp, my voice sounding like gravel under a boot. It’s supposed to be a warning. A final chance for her to run before the shadows of my world swallow her whole.
Instead of answering, she reaches up and traces the line of my jaw with a steady finger, her touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “I know exactly what you are, Timofey,” she whispers, her voice a low, melodic thrum that vibrates through my chest. “And I’m not playing.”
That’s the final thread. The last cord of restraint snaps.
The back of my legs hits the edge of the mattress, and I pivot, lowering her onto the sheets. She’s swallowed up in my sweatpants and shirt, the fabric hanging off her frame, but it does nothing to hide the fire she’s stoked in my blood.
Her black hair fans out across the pillow like a dark, silken halo, framing a face that’s flushed a deep, panicked pink.
Her eyes are wide, tracking my every move, and her lips are bruised and swollen from my mouth.
There is no escaping me now. The room has shrunk down to the space between our bodies, and I’m done pretending I can walk away.
I climb over her, my knees flanking her hips, and the sheer, unadulterated desire in her eyes finally does me in. I reach down, my fingers hooking into the hem of the shirt, and I pull it up and over her head in one fluid motion.
She isn’t wearing anything underneath.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck.
The realization hits me like a physical blow to the gut. She was standing there, throwing barbs and arguing with me, and she was completely bare beneath my clothes the entire time. The thought of it—the sheer audacity and the hidden vulnerability—makes my head spin.
I should move. I should tug off the sweatpants and finish what we’ve started, but I’m paralyzed, swept away by the sight of her.
Her breasts are perfect, beautiful, sexy mounds that rise and fall with her frantic breathing.
Her skin is like porcelain, but the tips are hard and rosy, reacting to the cool air and the heat of my gaze.
I’ve seen beauty before, but this is different. This is ruinous.
My hands, usually so steady, tremble as I reach out to touch her.
I graze the curve of her side, my thumb dragging upward toward that peak, and the sound she makes—a low, broken hitch in her throat—is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever heard.
I’m a man who lives by logic and lethal precision, but looking at her now, I know I’m lost.
I lean down, my shadow swallowing her whole, and whisper against the sensitive skin of her collarbone.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.”
I draw one rosy nipple into my mouth, and the reaction is instantaneous.
Her back arches sharply off the mattress, her breath hitching in a jagged sob that vibrates against my lips.
I don’t hold back; I suckle her deeply, my tongue lashing over the sensitive peak in a relentless rhythm while my free hand captures the other breast. My fingers flick over the hardened tip, teasing it until she’s twisting beneath me, caught between the dual fire of my touch.
“Timofey….”
She’s whimpering my name, a broken, breathless sound that does more damage to my restraint than a bullet ever could.
I feel my pulse thundering in my ears, my cock hardening painfully against the cotton of my sweatpants.
Usually, I’m a man of cold calculation; it takes time, focus, and a steady hand to get me to this point of no return.
But Valeria’s voice, raw and filled with a need she can’t hide, is pure intoxication.
It’s a drug I didn’t know I was addicted to until this very second.
The sound of her undoing is a siren song, and I find myself craving more of it. I want to hear every broken note she’s capable of making. I want to mark her, to claim her, to leave her so breathless she can’t remember the world outside this room.
I suck harder, my teeth grazing the tender flesh just enough to draw another sharp cry from her throat. Her hands find my hair, her fingers digging in as she tries to pull me closer, her body vibrating with a frantic energy.
She sinks her hands into my hair and tugs, the sharp sting of it only fueling the fire in my gut.
I don’t stop. I let the nipple pop out of my mouth, the wet skin glistening in the low light, and begin a slow, torturous trail of kisses down the center of her body.
One hand stays anchored on her breast, my thumb and forefinger twisting the peak, keeping her focused on the friction while my other hand finds the waistband of those oversized sweatpants.
I shove them down and off in one rough motion.
She isn’t wearing panties.
Fuck.
Her bare pussy blooms under my gaze, pale and perfect and completely exposed to me. The sight is a physical blow to my system. I could stay like this forever, just staring at the wreckage I’ve made of her composure, but the hunger is too sharp to be satisfied with just a look.
I grab both of her creamy thighs, the skin soft as silk under my calloused palms, and spread them wide. I start at her knee, trailing my mouth down the inner length of one long, trembling leg. Every time my tongue licks her skin, she jumps, a fresh wave of whimpers breaking from her lips.
“Please…Timofey, please,” she begs, her voice a jagged wreck.
I ignore the plea, taking my sweet time as I move to the other leg. I start at the ankle this time, my lips grazing the bone before moving upward, my breath hot against her inner thigh. She’s thrashing now, her heels digging into the mattress, her body a live wire of anticipation.
I want her to ache. I want her to feel every inch of the distance between my mouth and where she needs me to be. By the time I reach the apex of her thighs again, she’s sobbing my name, her head thrashing against the pillow in a beautiful, frantic rhythm of surrender.
The sound she makes is primal, a jagged scream that echoes off the cold walls of the room, but I don't give her a second to recover. Guided by her frantic grip on my hair, I bury my face in her heat, the scent of her—sweet, musk, and pure invitation—filling my senses until I can’t think of anything else.
I give her another long, slow lick, my tongue flat and firm as it drags from the base of her opening to the very top.
She’s vibrating beneath me, her hips bucking off the bed in a desperate attempt to meet the pressure.
I capture her clit between my lips, sucking a sharp, rhythmic pulse that sends her into a frenzy.
“Timofey!” she shrieks, her nails digging into my scalp now, her thighs trembling so violently they’re hitting my shoulders.
I don’t let up. I dive deeper, my tongue swirling and flicking with a lethal precision I usually reserve for a blade.
I want to drink her in, to taste the very moment she loses herself to me.
Every time she tries to catch her breath, I change the rhythm, a torturous flick here, a deep, suctioning pull there, until she’s nothing but a mess of tangled black hair and pale, flushed skin.
I can feel the tension in her muscles reaching a breaking point.
Her breath is coming in short, panicked hitches, and the slickness of her desire is everywhere.
I’m a man who thrives on control, but as I feel her start to shatter under my mouth, I realize I’ve never wanted to lose it more than I do right now.