Chapter 24
Maksim
When I wake up, I feel her weight on top of me. Her warm body pressed against mine, her steady breathing against my chest, the scent of her hair surrounding me.
I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.
Since she arrived, I’ve been sleeping better, but still, around four in the morning, I find myself staring at the ceiling, restless to get up.
There’s always something on my mind—some urgency, transactions, shipments, a bribe to arrange. I’m never at peace.
Until today.
The clock on the nightstand shows it’s past eight in the morning, and the sun streaming through a gap in the curtains confirms it. This time, I’m in no rush to move.
Because Svetlana is sleeping on my chest.
One leg thrown over mine, her hair spread like spilled dark ink, her mouth slightly open, her breath warm against my skin. My mother’s bracelet adorns her wrist, rising and falling slowly with each breath I take. It calms me to see her sleeping so soundly, free of worry, free of weight.
But there’s something more. Something beyond this tranquility—a tightness in my chest that isn’t bad, that’s warm and good. Pleasant.
It feels like something hot and too big to contain, rising up my throat and making me uncomfortable with how good it feels. I’ve killed, tortured, and done abominable things, and yet what scares me now is breathing too deeply and disturbing her peaceful sleep.
I stay like this for a while, lying still, admiring my beautiful, proud wife who fought with everything she had against the inevitable. The more I think about the two of us, the faster I reach the conclusion that this little ego game was a tremendous mistake.
Anya is mine and always has been.
I stroke her hair carefully, then slowly ease out from under her. When I finally slip free, Anya mumbles nonsense words, searches for the warmth that vanished, wraps herself in the sheet, and drifts back to sleep. I watch her for another moment before turning and heading to the shower.
As the hot water cascades over my shoulders, I let my body and mind relax.
Today there’s no betrayal, no Yegorov, no Moscow son of a bitch trying to bring me down.
No. Today there’s only the tired body of a man who fucked his wife all night and a mind full of memories of the way she moaned my name while coming on my cock.
“I didn’t know you sang.”
Her sweet voice pulls me back to reality, and I open my eyes.
Svetlana is leaning against the bathroom doorframe. Barefoot, hair messy, wearing only my shirt from yesterday—too big for her, slipping off one shoulder and falling to mid-thigh. Bare legs. Her face creased from sleep, wearing a crooked smile like someone who caught me red-handed.
She looks delicious.
“I don’t sing.”
“You were singing just now.” She crosses her arms, her smile growing. “Pretty in tune, by the way. You’ve been hiding this from me all this time.”
“You’re hearing things.”
I grumble, a bit embarrassed. I was humming one of those idiotic songs from the playlist I listen to when I work out. Something with a heavy beat and lyrics I’ve never bothered to understand.
“Oh, am I?” She pushes off the doorframe and takes a step into the bathroom, her eyes traveling down my wet body without shame, hungry. “That’s too bad. I was actually enjoying it.”
I snort at her shrug. Anya knows exactly what she’s doing—the little smile playing at the corner of her full lips is proof of that.
“Come here,” I call.
“Why?”
“Svetlana.”
She bites her lip to keep from smiling wider, pretends to hesitate, then pulls my shirt over her head, drops it on the floor, and steps into the shower.
The moment she steps into the shower, I pull her waist to me with one hand and bury the other in her hair, gripping her nape, bringing her mouth to mine.
Her tongue slides against mine and Anya presses her small breasts to my chest, closing the space between us.
My cock throbs, needing little more to get hard and press against her flat stomach.
Yesterday I went slow. I held back and tried to meet her every need, but today I don’t have that patience in me. Today I have only hunger.
I push my hips toward her, feeling her gasp, and I’m surprised when Anya takes a tentative step back.
Her slender fingers wrap around my length, barely closing around it.
She starts stroking slowly, pumping up and down until she picks up the rhythm.
I wrap my large hand around her still-loose grip and guide.
“Squeeze harder.” She follows the command. “That’s it, just like that.”
I step out from under the hot water when Svetlana starts trailing kisses across my torso. She starts at the tattoo inked on my chest, moves toward my nipple, and lightly bites where I have Ivan’s image etched on my skin.
My undoing comes when those enormous green eyes look up at me. On her knees. Anya smiles, mischievous, licks her lips hungrily, then wraps her lips around the head of my cock.
“Fuck.”
Her hot mouth swallows me slowly, testing how much she can take. I run my hand over her wet hair, slick from the shower spray, guiding her as she sucks me. I’m too big, and when Anya tries to take more than halfway, she gags.
“Go slow, Solnyshko.” I caress her cheek. “You can take it all, just go slow.”
Anya obeys, going slow, breathing deep, making me roll my eyes back. I rock my hips forward, sinking deeper into her throat—so hot and tight, just like her pussy.
I'm on the edge.
The wet sound of my cock sliding over her tongue, pre-cum mixed with her saliva dripping from the corner of her lips, her hot mouth and those eyes locked on me…
“Come here.”
I pull away from her and yank her up, attacking her mouth in a kiss that tastes like me.
“Hold on,” I say against her mouth.
I grab Anya by the thighs and lift. Instantly, she wraps her legs around my waist, and I pin her against the cold tile wall.
A gasp that's half moan echoes through the room as I fist her wet hair and pull back just enough to expose her throat.
I drag my mouth down her neck, scraping the soft, pale skin with my teeth and beard until she trembles and writhes.
“Maksim,” she moans breathlessly.
I slip my hand between us, finding her already ready for me, slick and hot. I guide my cock to her wet entrance and thrust all the way in, and we both moan at the same time. I can't go slow this time. She's so tight and wet around me I'm losing my mind.
I fuck my wife against the wall. Hard. Hungry. Each thrust pulling a breathy moan from her. Her body slides up and down the tile, slipping with each thrust.
I squeeze her ass hard, spreading her so I can bury myself even deeper.
“That's it,” I grunt into her neck. “This is how you like it, isn't it?”
She doesn't answer with words. Anya just throws her head back and moans louder this time. She digs her nails into my shoulders and sinks her heels deeper into my ass, pulling me closer.
“Fuck, feel how tight you're squeezing me?”
Water runs down her breasts, trailing toward her belly and pooling where we connect. There's an insane, thirsty monster rising to the surface inside me.
Territorial.
Hungry.
“You're mine,” I declare. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she answers breathlessly, her eyes glazed and locked on mine. “Fuck, Maks, don't stop.”
I pick up the pace, feeling her pussy start to tighten around my cock. I release her hair and slide my hand between us, my thumb finding her swollen clit and pressing down. Anya gasps and lets out that low, choked cry I already know announces her orgasm.
“Come, Solnyshko. Come for your husband.”
Squeezing my shoulders and digging her nails into my back, she shatters.
Her body contracts in spasms around my cock, and she moans my name so loud I feel it echo in my chest. The whole thing takes me over the edge with her.
I give two, three more deep thrusts until I grunt, my forehead dropping to her shoulder, my cock pulsing until she's completely filled with my cum.
Like last night, we stay there for a second, panting, trying to catch our breath and steady our legs. I keep my mouth on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of soap, sex, and her, until her legs start to relax and slide down.
Carefully, I set Anya on her feet, keeping one hand on her back until I'm sure her knees can hold her. She looks at me for a moment, hair stuck to her face, a lazy, satisfied smile playing on her lips.
“Good morning to you too,” she says.
I don't hold back my smile this time, and I like how satisfied she looks seeing it come so easily.
When I turn to grab the soap, I feel Anya press her body against my back. Her wet breasts against my skin, her arms around my waist, her face between my shoulder blades. I stand still, enjoying the warmth, the weight of our bodies together, and above all, the feeling of being held like this.
Then I feel her mouth descend. A kiss between my shoulder blades, on the eagle tattoo. Another trailing down my side. And then she kisses my right rib, right over the Ivan tattoo I got when I was twenty.
“Medvezhonok.[24]” she murmurs against my skin.
Little bear.
I stand still for a second, my heart settling after the orgasm, but also after that nickname.
No one has ever called me anything ending in a diminutive in my life.
My father called me kid, weak, worse things.
The Circle calls me Pakhan, Maks, nothing more.
No one has ever called me anything affectionate.
And it should sound ridiculous, of course.
A man my size, with my history, called little bear by a ballerina who barely reaches my chest.
But it doesn't sound ridiculous to me.
“Am I huge, hairy, and have fish breath?” I joke, my back still turned. Still trying to control the heat burning in my chest.
Her laugh sounds like a melody.
“Let me think,” she starts. “Huge, yes.” She lowers her hand to wrap around my cock, already getting hard again. “Hairy in the right places.”
She runs her hand lightly over my groin and down to my trimmed balls. I like her caress. I'm waiting for more when she lets go and steps in front of me to slip under the shower spray.
“I’ll let you know when I figure out the rest.”
She turns to look at me over her shoulder and winks. The gesture is so light and playful that I can’t help myself—I laugh.
It’s a real laugh. Short and low, the sound comes out raspy—so unfamiliar it’s unrecognizable even to me. Anya seems to love it, because she widens the smile that doesn’t come easily to her either and watches me for a long moment, as if in admiration.
I reach out and grab the shampoo I bought just for her.
“Head back,” I say.
She obeys, but stays wary.
“What are you doing?”
“Washing your hair,” I respond when she turns to face me again. “Head back, Solnyshko.”
Anya hesitates for half a second. Of course—she wouldn’t be my wife if she didn’t. Then she tilts her head back, tucking it under my chin, and closes her eyes.
I run my fingers through her dark, wet hair, spread the shampoo, massage her scalp slowly—with the same hands that have committed so many atrocities. She relaxes against my chest, her breathing slowing, and a small sound of contentment escapes her, involuntary—a soft sigh.
As I watch the foam run down her back, I think about how I’ve lived my life until now. I’ve always been a weapon. They never needed me for anything beyond killing. I never wanted to be more than that. The man who kills, who frightens, who holds power in his hands.
But now, this woman—so beautiful, so incredibly badass—has trusted me to take care of her. Like no one ever has. And she doesn’t know it, but she does the same for me, in equal measure. Every time she asks how my day was or if I’m hurt, Anya takes care of me.
I’m completely fucked, and I don’t care one bit.