13. Alina #2
Instead, I open beneath him, my breath catching as if my body has been waiting for this even while my mind screamed against it. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, unspooling something raw and reckless between us. It feels like a mistake and a confession all at once.
His hand closes on my waist firmly, pulling me flush against him as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
The other slides up to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head just enough to steal another breath from me.
His touch is possessive without being cruel, desperate without being careless.
My hands move on their own, dragging up his chest, clutching at his shoulders like I need the solidity of him to stay upright. I feel the tension in his body that’s usually so coiled and restrained suddenly unleashed, and it mirrors the chaos inside me.
Every thought I had a heartbeat ago dissolves under the force of it, under the electricity crackling between us, vibrating through all the broken, hollow places I’ve been trying not to feel. A low sound leaves his chest, rough and involuntary, that I feel echo through me like a struck chord.
For this one suspended moment, there is no past and no future. No contracts or bloodstained hands or monsters that hide in plain sight.
It’s just us .
I don’t remember moving.
One second, we’re standing in the middle of my room, my breath tangled between us, and the next, my back is hitting the mattress, the impact knocking the air from my lungs with a soft, startled sound. The bed dips beneath my weight, sheets cool against my skin, and then he’s there.
His mouth never truly leaves mine. It breaks away only long enough for him to drag in a rough breath and curse quietly under it, to murmur my name once like an accusation he can’t take back before crashing back into me again.
The sound of it— Alina —is torn from his throat, raw and hoarse, and it sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
My fingers fist in his shirt first, knuckles brushing the hard lines of his chest. Then they’re in his hair, tugging without meaning to, before sliding back to his shoulders as if I’m trying to anchor myself to something solid.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what comes next. I only know that everything else like the questions, the anger, the grief that feels like it’s been hollowing me out from the inside blurs beneath the intensity of him.
He braces one hand on the bed beside my head, caging me in while the other traces my jaw, my throat, the delicate line beneath my ear.
The touch is reverent and urgent all at once as if he’s trying to memorize me just in case this is the last time he’s allowed to.
His thumb brushes my pulse and pauses there, feeling it race under his touch.
“Alina,” he says again, softer this time. It sounds like a confession.
This is wrong.
I know it with every rational part of me. I know it in the quiet corners of my mind that are still screaming warnings I don’t want to hear. This is the man who took my freedom. The man who signed the end of my mother’s life. The man who holds my future like something he can rearrange at will.
And yet my body betrays me completely, arching into his touch like it never got the message.
I feel the battle inside him in the way his hands move.
His thumb comes to rest at the edge of my lower lip when he finally drags his mouth away from mine.
His breath is ragged now, uneven, warm against my skin.
He stays close enough that I can still feel him, still feel the pull between us humming like a live wire.
In that pause, suspended between want and consequence, I realize how dangerous this truly is. Not because of what he might do, but because of how badly a part of me wants him to stop thinking and just feel.
“Tell me to go,” he whispers.
The words aren’t a dare. They are an offering, an escape route he’s placing in my hands even though every instinct in him is screaming not to.
I don’t say it.
His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, storm-gray collapsing into black. There’s no calculation there, no cold strategy, just something raw and exposed, a fissure in the armor he wears so easily everywhere else. A man behind the monster.
“I want you,” I whisper back.
His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then his mouth is on mine again.
The kiss turns hungry, devouring, as if my words have snapped the last thread of his restraint. His tongue sweeps against mine, claiming, and I meet him with the same desperation while my hands slide under his shirt to feel the heat of his skin and the taut muscle shifting beneath.
He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me straight to my core. His hand leaves the bed to grip my hip, pulling me flush against him, and I feel him hard against my thigh, the evidence of how much he wants this too. It sends a jolt of heat through me, pooling low in my belly.
His fingers work at the hem of my shirt, pulling the fabric up until cool air kisses my skin.
He tosses it and then his mouth is there trailing fire down my neck and collarbone, lingering at the swell of my breast as he pushes the cup of my bra aside.
When his lips close over my nipple, I gasp, my back arching right off the bed.
How can something this destructive feel like salvation?
I tug at his shirt, frantic now, needing to feel more of him.
He pulls back just long enough to rip the rest of the buttons apart, sending them flying like confetti around us, and then he’s back.
His chest presses against mine as he kisses me again.
His hand slides down my body, over my stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of my pants until his fingers find me already slick and aching.
The first touch is electric. I cry out into his mouth as he strokes me slowly. His thumb circles that sensitive bud, making my hips buck against his hand as I chase the building pressure.
“Sasha,” I breathe, my voice breaking on his name. It’s not a plea to stop like it should be. It’s a plea for more.
He growls something incoherent against my skin, the sound raw and animalistic, vibrating right through me as his hands turn impatient.
He hooks his fingers under the waistband of my pants and yanks them down hard enough to move me across the mattress.
They’re discarded in a careless heap on the floor along with my bra and whatever else I had on.
He pulls back just enough to shove his own off, and then he settles between my thighs.
My gaze drops helplessly as I catch sight of his cock.
It bobs, heavy and flushed as he moves, thick veins tracing up the length of it, the head already glistening with precum.
My mouth waters at the sight, a traitorous ache blooming between my thighs.
He’s beautiful like this—undone and dangerous and mine for this stolen moment. I hate how much I want to taste him, how much I want him to ruin me.
He doesn’t give me time to dwell on it before strong hands are gripping my hips and dragging me toward the center of the bed like I weigh nothing.
The sheets bunch beneath me as he yanks me upright, palms sliding under my ass to lift me until I’m barely on the mattress.
My thighs are splayed wide over his shoulders, my core exposed and aching right at his mouth.
“Sasha—” I gasp.
The first drag of his tongue is slow from my clit down to my core, lapping up every drop of slick like he’s starving for it.
My entire body jolts, my hips jerking involuntarily as pleasure rockets through my core, sharp and blinding.
He groans against me, the vibration making me cry out, and then he’s devouring me.
His tongue plunges inside, curling, retreating only to circle my clit with ruthless precision.
My hands fist in the sheets as my thighs tremble around his shoulders. He sucks my clit, teeth grazing over the bud just enough to make me see stars. Two fingers slide into me without warning, curling to stroke that spot inside that makes my back bow off the bed.
“Sasha!” His name tears from my throat, broken and pleading. I don’t even know what I’m asking for—more? Mercy? Absolution?
He answers with another long, slow lick, eyes lifting to meet mine over the plane of my body. They’re dark and feral, full of something that looks a lot like possession. His fingers thrust deeper, his tongue flicking relentlessly until the pleasure coils so tight in my core, I can barely breathe.
Oh, God. I’m going to come.
The man who destroyed my world is the one unraveling me so completely, I might never be able to put myself back together the same way. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it pushes me over the edge.
I shatter with a sharp cry, my thighs clamping around his head as wave after wave crashes through me, my body pulsing around his fingers. He doesn’t stop. Instead, he keeps licking me through it, gentler now, drawing out every aftershock until I’m limp and trembling.
Only then does he ease me back down to the mattress, crawling up my body, his lips shiny with me. He kisses me deeply and filthily, letting me taste myself on his tongue. I moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
My nails dig into his shoulder blades. More. I need more. I need him inside me, need to feel that devastating fullness, need to lose myself completely before reality comes crashing back in around me.
His cock slides through my slick folds, teasing. He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching.
“Tell me you still want this,” he rasps.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t… but my answer is already there in the way I tilt my hips, urging him closer.
“I want you,” I whisper back, the words a surrender and a demand all at once.
He surges forward the instant the words leave my lips, burying himself inside me in one deep, claiming thrust. The stretch is even more intense this time, after the way he’s already unraveled me with his mouth.
I’m swollen and still sensitive, my core so wet that he slides in to the hilt without resistance.
The sudden fullness still steals my breath. “Oh…”
A low, guttural sound tears from his throat as he bottoms out, his forehead dropping to mine. For a heartbeat, we stay frozen like that.
His hands slide under my thighs, spreading me wider, lifting my hips to change the angle. When he draws back and drives in again, the head of his cock drags across that devastating spot inside me. I cry out, my nails raking down his back.
“Alina.” His voice is ragged. “Fuck—you feel…”
He can’t finish the sentence. He just starts moving, hard and steady, each thrust like he’s trying to imprint himself on me. The bed creaks beneath us, the rhythm building fast. Our breaths mingle in harsh pants, my moans rising to meet his low groans.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to urge him deeper. He obliges, pounding into me with a ferocity that borders on punishment, as if he’s trying to exorcise every accusation, every hate-filled glare I’ve ever given him.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark.
The sting sends another bolt of heat straight to my core and I clench around him involuntarily.
He curses against my skin, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains control and thrusts even harder.
One of his hands slips between us, thumb finding my clit again, rubbing tight circles that match the relentless drive of his cock. It’s too much, too soon after the last orgasm, but I can’t stop it. The pleasure coils viciously tight, climbing higher with every stroke.
“Look at me,” he demands.
I force my eyes open to meet his gaze. His eyes are wild, almost black, sweat beading at his temple, jaw clenched so tightly, I can see the muscle ticking. He looks wrecked and undone. So uncharacteristic of the man—the monster—I’ve come to know.
All because of me.
His losing himself in me, the man who controls my every waking moment… it’s a power that’s intoxicating to hold. How did I manage to get ahold of the end of his leash, let alone finding he has one in the first place?
The thought shoves me over the edge again.
I come with a sharp, broken cry, my back arching clear off the bed as my inner walls flutter and squeeze around him in rhythmic waves.
He growls my name, his thrusts erratic now as he chases his own release.
A few more deep, grinding strokes and he buries himself as far as he can go, body going rigid as he spills inside me.
I feel every spurt, every throb, and it drags my orgasm out longer until I’m shaking beneath him.
He collapses carefully, rolling us so I’m draped over his chest instead of crushed beneath him. His arms band around me, holding tight like he’s afraid I’ll vanish the moment he lets go. Our hearts hammer together, sweat-slick skin cooling slowly in the quiet room.
His fingers trace idle patterns along my spine. I press my face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the salt and sex and something uniquely Sasha that I already know I’ll crave when this moment ends.
I hate him.
I want him.
I think I might be starting to need him, and that scares me more than anything he’s ever done to me. The grief is still there, waiting in the shadows. The anger too. But right now, in this hazy afterglow, they feel distant.
Muted.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something dangerously close to peace. I don’t know how I’m ever going to reconcile that with any of this. But for now, I’ll enjoy it while it lasts before the last of my resolve completely crumbles.