CHAPTER 28| The Feral Worship
The kiss doesn't stay soft.
It can't. Not when Nikolai's hand is fisted in my hair, not when his other hand is gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks, not when he's groaning into my mouth like I'm oxygen and he's been suffocating.
His tongue slides against mine, demanding and skilled and absolutely devastating. Every nerve ending in my body lights up at once, years of carefully constructed walls crumbling under the onslaught of sensation.
I've never felt this before. Never understood why people described desire as heat or hunger or need.
Now I do.
Now I'm burning alive and starving and desperate for something I can't name.
Nikolai breaks the kiss just long enough to lift me higher on the counter, positioning himself between my thighs. His hands slide from my hips to my waist, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through the thin fabric of his shirt that I'm wearing.
I gasp at the contact, my back arching involuntarily.
He makes a rough sound—half groan, half growl—and captures my mouth again. This time it's filthier, deeper, his teeth catching my bottom lip before his tongue soothes the sting.
My hands are shaking as I grip his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath warm skin. I've touched him before—casual contact, comfort, the gradual desensitization that came from weeks of him respecting my boundaries.
But this is different.
This is deliberate. Sexual. Wanted.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to my throat. He finds my pulse point and bites down gently, sucking hard enough that I know it'll leave a mark.
The thought should terrify me. Should trigger every trauma response I have about men marking me, claiming me, taking ownership of my body.
Instead, it makes me moan.
The sound surprises us both. Nikolai freezes, his mouth still against my throat, his breath hot on my skin.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at me, his emerald eyes absolutely feral.
"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough and dark.
"What?" My own voice is breathless, confused.
"That sound. That perfect fucking sound you just made." His hand slides up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing across my swollen bottom lip. "Make it again, Butterfly."
Heat floods my face. I've never—I don't know how to—
His other hand slides higher, his palm cupping my breast through the thin shirt. His thumb drags across my nipple, and the sensation shoots straight down to my core.
I moan again. Louder this time. Completely involuntary.
"Putain," Nikolai breathes, and the profanity sounds like prayer. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"Damn.
I don't. Can't. Can barely think past the way his hands are moving, the way his mouth is descending again, capturing mine in a kiss that's pure claiming.
His fingers find the hem of the shirt I'm wearing—his shirt. He breaks the kiss long enough to pull it over my head, leaving me in just my underwear.
I should feel exposed. Vulnerable. All the old fears should be crashing over me right now.
But Nikolai is looking at me like I'm art. Like I'm something precious and perfect and worth worshipping.
"Belle," he murmurs, almost to himself. "You're so fucking beautiful." Beautiful.
His hands slide up my ribs, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just... touching. Learning. Exploring.
It's too much and not enough all at once.
I need—I don't know what I need, but I need more.
My voice comes out shaky, barely above a whisper: "Nikolai... please..."
His eyes snap to mine, dark and hungry. "Please what, papillon? Use your words."
My face burns. I can feel the heat spreading down my neck, my chest. But I force myself to say it: "Touch me. Please touch me."
Something in his expression shifts. The controlled predator gives way to something darker, more primal.
"Where?" His voice is pure sin. "Where do you want my hands, Butterfly?"
I can't say it. Can't form the words.
So I take his wrist and guide his hand lower, down my stomach, to the waistband of my underwear.
Nikolai makes a sound like he's been punched. His free hand grips the counter beside me, knuckles white, his whole body vibrating with tension.
"You're going to kill me," he growls. Then his eyes lock onto mine with terrible intensity. "I want to hear it, Leah. I want you to use that beautiful, raspy voice and beg me to touch you. Tell me exactly what you want."
Oh god.
My voice is shaking as I whisper: "I want... I want you to touch me. Please, Nikolai. I need—"
I don't get to finish.
Nikolai drops to his knees.
One second he's standing, the next he's on the floor between my thighs, his hands gripping my hips, his face level with my core.
"This," he says roughly, his breath hot against my inner thigh, "is going to ruin me."
Then his mouth is on me.
Through the fabric of my underwear, his tongue traces a line that makes my entire body jerk. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls, sliding the fabric down and off in one smooth motion.
I should feel exposed. Vulnerable. Terrified.
Instead I feel safe. Wanted. Absolutely worshipped.
Nikolai spreads my thighs wider, his hands firm but gentle on my skin. He looks up at me, his emerald eyes absolutely feral, and speaks in that low, commanding tone that makes my nervous system respond before my brain can catch up:
"Watch me, Butterfly. I want you to see exactly who's making you fall apart."
Then his mouth descends.
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out—a broken, desperate sound I've never made before. He licks a long, slow stripe, learning the taste of me, groaning like I'm the best thing he's ever experienced.
His tongue finds my clit and circles it with devastating precision. Not rough. Not demanding. Just... perfect. Like he's studied exactly how to touch me, exactly what will make me lose my mind.
My hands fly to his hair, gripping the dark strands as he works me with his mouth. His tongue alternates between broad strokes and focused attention, building sensation until I'm shaking.
He slides one finger inside me—careful, gentle, giving me time to adjust. My body accepts him easily, too desperate to register any of the old trauma.
This isn't violation. This is choice. This is Nikolai on his knees, worshipping me like I'm something sacred instead of something broken.
He adds a second finger, curling them to hit a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes. His mouth never stops working my clit, the dual sensation overwhelming every sense I have.
I can hear myself making sounds—moans and gasps and broken attempts at his name. I can feel the tension coiling tighter in my core, building toward something I've never experienced before.
"That's it," Nikolai growls against me, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. "Let go, papillon. Let me hear you."
His fingers curl harder. His tongue flicks faster. And suddenly I'm flying apart, my whole body convulsing as pleasure crashes over me in waves.
I cry out his name—loud and broken and absolutely genuine. My fingers tighten in his hair, holding him against me as the orgasm tears through me.
He doesn't stop. His fingers keep moving, his mouth keeps working, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless and gasping.
Then, before I can recover, he does something with his tongue that makes me jerk violently.
"Again," he demands, his voice muffled. "Give me another one, Butterfly."
"I can't—" I try to say, but he's already building the tension again, his fingers moving faster, his mouth absolutely relentless.
The second orgasm hits harder than the first. Sharper. More intense. I scream—actually scream—as it rips through me, my entire body shaking with the force of it.
Nikolai finally pulls back, his face flushed, his lips wet, his eyes absolutely wild with satisfaction.
He stands slowly, his chest heaving, and leans over me to capture my mouth in a filthy kiss. I can taste myself on his tongue, and it should be strange or wrong but it's just... erotic.
His hands frame my face as he kisses me thoroughly, completely, like he's trying to consume me whole. His body presses against mine, and I can feel—
Oh.
He's hard. Achingly, obviously hard, the thick length of him pressing against my thigh through his pants.
I break the kiss, my hand sliding down between us to touch him through the fabric. He hisses, his hips jerking involuntarily.
"Nikolai—" I look up at him, my voice shaky. "What about you?"
His hand catches mine gently, bringing my fingers to his lips to kiss my knuckles. "Leave it."
"But—"
"I don't need to push your trauma any further tonight, papillon." His smile is soft despite the hunger still burning in his eyes. "I'm already the happiest psychopath on earth just from hearing your voice."
Something fierce rises in my chest. Not fear. Not trauma. Just... determination.
I shake my head, my other hand coming up to cup his jaw. My fingers move in sign language against his chest: I want to fix it.
Nikolai's expression shifts. The softness disappears, replaced by something darker, more dangerous.
"Are you certain?" His voice is rough. "Because if you start this, I'm not going to have the control to stop halfway."
I nod. Absolutely certain.
He stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for any hint of fear or hesitation. When he finds none, his smile turns feral.
"Then we do this my way."
Before I can ask what that means, he scoops me off the counter—one arm under my knees, one around my back—and carries me toward the bedroom.
The massive bed sits in the center of the room, dark sheets and soft lighting making everything look intimate and safe. He lays me down carefully in the center, arranging me exactly how he wants.
Then he steps back.
I watch as Nikolai reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric drops to the floor, revealing the body I've seen before but never really looked at. Not like this. Not with clear eyes and no panic clouding my vision.
He's beautiful. Lethally so. Lean muscle carved with precision, his skin pale in the low light. And there—on both sides of his neck—the intricate tattoos of the de Rivel and Valentini crests. Dark ink against pale skin, making him look like some kind of terrifying god.
My breath catches.
He smirks, clearly reading my reaction. "See something you like, Butterfly?"
I can't form words. Can only nod.
His hands move to his belt, undoing it with deliberate slowness. His voice drops to that commanding register as he says: "Spread your legs for me."
The words trigger something. Not panic—not quite. But a spike of old fear, old memories of being told to open, to submit, to let someone take what they wanted.
I freeze, my thighs clamping together involuntarily.
Nikolai notices immediately. His hands still on his belt, his expression softening fractionally. "Leah. Look at me."
I force my eyes up to meet his.
"You're safe," he says quietly. "You're always safe with me. But if this is too much—"
"No." My voice comes out stronger than I expected. "No, I want this. I want you."
I take a breath and consciously relax my muscles, letting my thighs fall open. Vulnerable. Trusting. Entirely exposed for him.
Nikolai's breathing turns ragged. His hands resume their work on his belt, his eyes locked between my legs.
"Putain," he breathes. "Tu es parfaite." You're perfect.
But instead of moving toward the bed, he backs up.
He settles into the large armchair positioned across from the bed—the same one he used to sit in while I slept, watching over me like some kind of dark guardian.
His hands move to his zipper. The sound is loud in the quiet room as he pulls it down and reaches inside.
When he pulls his cock free, my eyes go wide.
He's big. Thick and long and absolutely intimidating. The head is flushed dark, already leaking, and my mouth goes dry at the sight.
Nikolai wraps his hand around himself, stroking once from base to tip, and groans. His eyes lock onto mine with devastating intensity.
"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice rough.
I gasp. "What?"
"You heard me, papillon." He strokes himself again, slow and deliberate. "Put your hand between your legs and touch yourself. Show me how you fall apart."
Heat floods my face. I've never—I don't—
"Now, Leah." His voice drops into pure authority. "Let me see you."
My hand shakes as I slide it down my stomach. Lower. Until my fingers brush against my clit, still sensitive from his mouth.
I gasp at the contact, my hips jerking.
"That's it," Nikolai growls, his hand moving faster on his cock. "Just like that. Circle your clit. Slowly."
I obey, my fingers moving in small circles, building sensation. My eyes stay locked on him—on the way his hand moves, on the flex of his arm muscles, on the absolute hunger in his expression.
"Now slide a finger inside," he commands. "I want to see you take it."
I do, gasping at the stretch. It's not the same as his fingers—mine are smaller, less skilled—but the position is devastatingly intimate.
"Merde, you're beautiful," he breathes. His hand moves faster, his breathing harsh. "Add another finger. Fuck yourself for me, Butterfly. Show me what you need." Fuck.
I add a second finger, my back arching off the bed. The sensation is overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once.
Nikolai starts speaking in French. Low, filthy French that I don't fully understand but that makes my body respond anyway.
"Regarde-moi," he growls. "Keep those beautiful eyes on me while you fall apart. I want to see every expression. Every sound. I want to watch you come undone knowing it's my voice making you do it."Look at me.
My fingers move faster, my other hand coming up to palm my breast. I'm making sounds—desperate, broken moans that fill the room.
"That's it, papillon. Harder. Fuck yourself harder. Imagine it's me—imagine my fingers, my cock, filling you completely."
The words send me spiraling. My hips lift off the bed, my fingers working frantically, chasing the pleasure building in my core.
"Come for me," Nikolai demands, his hand a blur on his cock. "Come right now, Leah. Let me hear you."
The orgasm crashes over me like a wave. I cry out his name, my body convulsing, my fingers still moving as I ride it out.
Through the haze, I hear Nikolai groan—a rough, desperate sound. His hand moves faster, and then he's coming too, his release painting his stomach and hand, his head falling back against the chair.
For a long moment, the only sound is our harsh breathing.
Then Nikolai stands on shaking legs and crosses to the bed. He climbs up beside me, gathering me against his chest despite the mess, his lips finding my forehead.
"Mon Dieu," he breathes. "Tu m'as détruit." My God. You destroyed me.
I curl into him, utterly boneless, my mind still spinning from what just happened.
He didn't just give me pleasure.
He completely rewired my brain, proving that the safest place in the world is naked under the gaze of a monster who treats me like I'm something sacred.
And as I drift toward sleep in his arms, one thought circles through my exhausted mind:
This is what freedom feels like. Not the absence of constraint, but the presence of choice. The knowledge that I can be utterly vulnerable with someone who will worship that vulnerability instead of weaponizing it.
The monster didn't cage me.
He gave me wings.