Chapter 12 #2
Just as I imagined, she's wearing nothing underneath.
Nothing but fresh, shower-clean skin—the very skin I've spent all week forcing myself not to think about.
I run my hand along the side of her body, from ribs to hip, exploring, learning, memorizing.
I move toward her small breasts, perky and aching to be touched.
My thumb grazes an already hardened nipple, and Anya moans again, now rolling her hips against me.
“Maksim…”
My cock is hard as stone, straining against my pants, begging to be freed. I lower my weight onto her, and Anya slides down the mattress, pulling me with her. Her legs fall open to receive me, only a thin layer of half-open robe keeping me from seeing all of her.
I pinch her nipple between my fingers, and Anya arches beneath me, pushing her hips toward mine, hungry for more. I grind against her, a second of relief washing over me as my hard cock presses against her body, even with clothes still between us. I lower my mouth further.
“Tell me to stop.”
I'm almost begging, but my wife won't back down. She's stubborn and knows what she wants.
“Keep going.”
Her fingers tug at my hair, hard enough to almost hurt, and when I think she's about to push me away for good, Anya shoves my head down instead, guiding my mouth to her breasts.
I'm done for.
I take one in my mouth, sucking hard on the pink nipple while I squeeze the other, a perfect fit in my palm. I keep grinding my hips against hers, the robe falling open more and more until only my pants separate us.
“Maksim…”
Anya moans again, and finally something inside her seems to awaken.
She untangles her hands from my hair and starts exploring my body.
Clumsily, she tries to unbutton my shirt, but I won't pull away from her delicious breasts, so she gives up.
She drags her nails down my back, still over the fabric, before moving her hands to my waistband.
She's so close. My cock pulses, throbs the moment her fingers brush against me through my pants, but she keeps working to free me from my clothes. With the button and zipper undone, her small hand wraps around my cock over my underwear, and I grunt.
This is the moment I lose it all. I throw all caution to the wind, forget every metaphor about woods and danger and keeping my distance. She's my wife, and I want her. And then…
The phone rings.
I freeze. Anya freezes beneath me, chest heaving, her hazy green eyes searching mine, wanting to know if I'm going to answer.
I have to answer.
I've been Pakhan for thirteen years and have never missed an important call. No one calls me for nothing. Everyone who works for me knows not to waste my time, so whoever this is knows it's important.
I reach over, grab the phone from the nightstand, and answer without getting off her.
“Talk.”
“Yegorov's Warehouse Three,” Igor says, voice serious. “Caught fire a few minutes ago. The whole thing. Wasn't anyone on our side. Yelena was watching it and swears it didn't come from inside.”
My hard-on dies instantly. The blood that was in all the wrong places rushes back to my brain, and in half a second, I stop being the man on top of his wife and become the Pakhan again.
If the order to torch the warehouse didn't come from me, then it came from outside.
And I don't let outsiders mess with my territory and live very long.
“Who else knows?”
“So far, me, you, and Yelena. Firefighters are on their way. We'll grease their palms. Yuri's pulling cameras from the area.”
“You at home?”
“Yes.”
“We leave in minutes.”
I hang up.
And then I look down.
Anya is beneath me, robe open, hair spread across the pillow, lips parted, still breathing hard, eyes still hazy. But I can see from her expression that she's starting to close off again, pride resurfacing—and maybe even regret over how far we went.
I climb off her, even as my body screams at me to stay and my mind wars with itself over what to do.
“Work.” It's all I can manage.
“I heard.”
She pulls the robe closed, ties the knot, sits up. Her voice has returned to its usual dryness, but her breathing is still ragged and her skin flushed everywhere my mouth traveled. I look at her, taking in what we did, and I think it irritates her a little.
I stand, adjust my clothes, grab my jacket from the armchair, the gun from the drawer, and compose myself. In seconds, I become the Pakhan. On my way out, I stop at the door, even knowing I shouldn't.
“Anya.”
She raises her eyes. It's the first time I've used the name she asked me to call her. I know it carries weight for her, and that's exactly why I want to use it—so she knows I'm speaking to my real wife, not the woman I bought.
“I'm not finished with you.”
It's not a threat—it's a promise. So she knows what's waiting for us.
I leave the room without looking back, without seeing what my promise did to her, because if I caught even a hint of fire in those emerald eyes, I would have gone back.
Fuck, I’m completely furious. More furious than I’ve been in years.
Some idiot decided to mess with my territory. They dragged me out of my wife’s bed when she was so completely surrendered to me… It makes me furious and relieved.
Because when I asked her to stop me, and she didn’t, I would have gone all the way. I would have fucked Svetlana right then and there and broken the rule I set for myself—that I wouldn’t touch her without permission, that I’d wait for her to beg for me.
This damn fire saved me from breaking my own word.
It makes me grateful and even more furious.
“You’ve got a weird look on your face,” Igor says, without taking his eyes off the road.
“Drive,” I order.
He shrugs and keeps driving.
I lean my head back against the car seat, close my eyes, and I can still feel her warmth, still hear her moans, still taste her skin.
I’m pathetic.
I spent the whole week convincing myself to stay away and lost my head today. In ten minutes. With a bathrobe, an upside-down book, and a laugh.
This woman is going to kill me. And the worst part is that I’m letting her.