26. Artem
Artem
Dating.
I turn the word over, trying to remember the last time I used it in reference to myself and come up empty-handed.
I have spent time with women, walked away from women, and kept every interaction at a distance that made leaving easy. I have never once stood in a room thinking about how to make someone stay.
This is new.
But I’m not unsettled by it. It’s more that I’m aware of it. Something to account for. And accounting for things is something I’m good at.
I already know what it means in practice. My name will follow her into every room she walks into, and the men with any sense will know what that means. I’ll deal with the ones who don’t have sense, and I find I don’t mind that prospect at all.
There are worse ways to spend an evening than ripping someone’s arm off for touching what’s mine.
Cady is warm against me, and her breathing has gone shallow in a way that has nothing to do with the conversation anymore. I keep my hand where it is because she hasn’t told me to move it. And her body has made its position on the matter very clear.
I feel the small involuntary shift of her toward me that she probably didn’t intend to give me, but I take it anyway because I love when she’s quiet and willing.
“Artem…” My name on her lips does something to me.
“Still here.” I move my lips to her hair.
Her fingers curl into my shirt when I shove a finger inside her, and her breathing catches.
I feel her lean into me. She tries to say something, and it doesn’t quite make it out.
“I’m not—“ A sharp inhale cuts it off when I put another finger inside her and start pumping, causing her forehead to drop to my chest. “I’m not agreeing to anything right now.”
“You don’t have to agree to anything right now.” She bobs her head in response. “You’ll agree later.”
She makes a pretty little moan all for me, and my brain takes hold of that.
I’m not in a rush.
I’ve been patient about Cady Gallagher since the beginning.
Right now, what I want is for her to stop thinking about terms and timeframes and all the careful walls she builds around herself to keep people away.
I want her to start thinking about how hard I can make her come.
“This isn’t fair,” she says quietly as if that will make me stop.
“No,” I agree.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Yes.”
I watch her face and think about how she looks like this and nowhere else.
Like every careful layer she carries into every other room has come undone in a bridal shop dressing room, and she can’t decide whether to be furious about it.
I know what I’m going to do about Cady beyond this room. I’m not going to smother her. She doesn’t need managing, and I know better than to try.
She wants to be treated like an equal, and I can do that easily because she’s the first person I’ve been around in a long time who’s worth treating that way.
I won’t let her walk into situations that put her in danger, and that’s not negotiable. She’s going to push back on it, and I’m going to hold the line.
The only thing I mind is the idea of her thinking this has an end date. That she can put a clock on us, wait it out, and walk away when the time she’s decided on runs out.
She’s not going to walk away.
I haven’t figured out how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make her dig in harder out of stubbornness, so I’m taking the more direct approach.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I tell her, my voice dropping back into the negotiation portion of this conversation.
“You’re going to stop putting time limits on something that doesn’t have one.
I’m going to handle the things that need handling.
And when you disagree with how I’m doing that, you’ll tell me, and we’ll talk about it.
Like two people who have decided to date. ”
The word still sits foreign in my mouth, and she catches it. I can see it in the small flash of amusement she tries to hide.
“Don’t,” I warn her.
“I didn’t say anything yet.”
“You were about to.”
“And?”
I roll my eyes.
“I was going to say that for a man who doesn’t date, you have a lot of opinions about how it works.”
I add a third finger inside her, stretching her out some more for me, and that gives me the sweet little gasp I was looking for.
I curl my fingers inside her, finding the spot that makes her eyes flutter shut. She tries to stay composed, but her breath hitches, betraying her and how much she’s trying to keep me at a distance.
“ I notice,” I murmur, leaning closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “That you talk more when you’re trying not to make noise for me.”
“I’m not—“ she starts, but I crook my fingers just so, and her protest dissolves into a sharp, shuddering moan.
It’s a beautiful, wrecked sound that goes straight to my cock, already rock hard and straining against my trousers.
“See?” I say, my voice growing thicker. “There it is.”
I start a slow, relentless rhythm, my fingers sliding in and out of her slick heat. Her hips begin to move against my hand. A tiny, involuntary rocking that she tries to stop before her teeth sink into her full lower lip.
“Don’t hold back.” My free hand comes up to grip her jaw, forcing her to look at me. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, Lisichka.”
She shakes her head, a defiant glint in her eyes even as her body surrenders.
But her resolve is crumbling.
Another deep, twisting thrust of my fingers, and another moan escapes, longer this time, sweeter than the last one.
The sound feeds something dark and possessive in me. My control begins to splinter.
It’s for her and only her.
“That’s it,” I growl, increasing my pace.
The dressing room is filled with the obscene, wet sound of my hand moving in her, her ragged breaths, and the soft, helpless cries she can no longer contain.
Each one is a victory.
Each one winds tension in my gut.
Her hands fly to my shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of my thin T-shirt. Her head falls back against the wall, exposing the long line of her throat.
I drop my mouth there, not kissing, just breathing her in, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her skin.
“You’re so wet.” My voice is rough with the need to fuck her with other parts of me, not just my fingers. “All this, just from me telling you how things are going to be. You like it. You like when I take over, Lisichka. You like it because you know you’re safe with me.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Her body is shouting the truth that she likes me taking control. Her inner muscles are fluttering around my fingers, a telltale sign that she’s close. The impending loss of her fighting me is pushing me toward the edge of my control.
I want to be buried inside her, to feel her heat milking my cock instead. To hear her moans become screams as I take her right here against this wall in a room full of silk and lace.
With a final, brutal curl of my fingers, I press my thumb against her clit.
Then she comes apart.
A broken gasp from her throat. Her body bows against mine as the orgasm rips through her. Her nails drag over my shirt while her thighs tremble violently around my hand.
And I watch her, mesmerized by the flutter of her eyelids, her parted lips, and the abandon on her face.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I ride her through it, my movements gentling but not stopping until the last aftershock subsides and she goes limp, held up by the wall and my body.
Slowly, I withdraw my fingers and bring them to my mouth. I never break eye contact as I lick them clean, tasting her climax against my tongue as her eyes widen. A fresh wave of heat colors her cheeks.
I’m no stranger to taking everything; I’m just new to owning a woman for longer than a night.
The brooding silence I usually wear is gone, shattered by her because her stubbornness and independence clash with my own.
In its place is a raw, hungry need.
And my belt buckle is already in my hand.
“Turn around.” My voice leaves no room for argument or her trying to regain the situation. “And place your hands on the wall, Lisichka.”
Her eyes, still glazed from her climax, meet mine. She sees the feral edge there. The control I’ve spent a lifetime honing is now reduced to ashes by the taste of her on my tongue and the feel of her shaking around my fingers.
She turns without hesitation, placing her palms flat against the cool, mirrored wall, arching her back and presenting herself to me.
Fucking perfect.
I shove down my jeans just enough to free myself. My cock, heavy and aching, is already slick at the tip with a need to wreck her.
I step forward, my body caging hers against the wall. One hand goes to her hip, and I grip her hard.
The other holds the base of my cock as I press against her.
She’s still slick and swollen from her orgasm, and then I’m driving inside in one brutal, claiming stroke because I can’t wait another second longer.
She cries out, a sharp, choked sound that echoes in the small room, her body stretching to take me. She’s so tight that it steals my breath.
For a second, I don’t move. I just feel it. The perfect, hot clench of her around me, the way her body trembles. I drop my forehead between her shoulder blades, my breath coming in ragged gusts against her skin.
“Mine,” I growl.
Then I move.
It’s not lovemaking.
It’s a taking.
Each withdrawal is a denial, and each slam back home is a possession.
The rhythm is punishing, driven by a hunger she alone ignites. The mirror in front of us rattles with every thrust. I watch our reflection—her face, pressed against the glass, eyes wide and dark with shock and overwhelming pleasure.
My own is a mask of primal intent, all brooding silence burned away by sheer ferocity.
“You feel that?” I snarl as my hips piston faster. “That’s what you do to me. You break me apart.”
She can only moan, a continuous, helpless stream of sound that fuels the fire. Her hands slip on the glass. I wrap an arm around her waist, hauling her back against me even harder and deepening the angle.
She gasps, her inner muscles clenching around me in a sudden, violent spasm.
She’s close again. I feel it building in the tension of her body, in the way her cries pitch higher.
“No,” I command, grinding deep and stilling for a moment, denying us both. Sweat drips from my temple onto her bare shoulder. “Not yet. You come when I tell you to.”
I resume the pace, slower now, but deeper with each thrust. My free hand slides around her hip, through the wetness between her legs, and finds her swollen clit.
I can’t last any longer.
This woman breaks all my resolve and patience until nothing is left but raw, feral need.
“Now, Lisichka,” I demand, my voice a dark, unwavering command. I press my thumb in a relentless circle just as I spear up into her, hitting a spot that makes me see stars.
She shatters.
Her orgasm is a silent scream against the mirror, her body convulsing around mine in wave after relentless wave. It pulls my release from me, a savage, roaring thing that empties me into her depths.
I bury myself to the hilt, muffling my groans against her skin. My hips jerk through the aftershocks as I mark her, claim her, in the most primitive way I know how.
For long moments, the only sounds are our harsh breaths. I stay inside her, my body heavy against hers. My grip on her hip is the only thing keeping her upright.
Slowly, I lift my head, and our eyes meet in the reflection.
Hers are glassy, and mine are still dark and feral, but with a grim, satisfied certainty.
I withdraw slowly, and she whimpers.
I turn her to face me. Her legs are still unsteady as I hold her up while I look down at the mess I’ve made of her.
The smeared lipstick, the flushed skin, and the discarded wedding gown crumpled at our feet that she’ll never wear.
I don’t apologize.
I don’t offer sweet words.
I say the only thing that matters. The truth she has just been forced to feel in every nerve ending.
“You are mine,” I tell her, my words final and absolute. “The talking about it is done. You’ll never be a pawn for someone else’s gain. You’re just… mine.”