ROMAN — Volkovskaya Mansion Study, 2334 #2
The command leaves my throat rough, a low growl that vibrates in the silent room.
She glares at me with those storm-grey eyes, and for a split second, I actually hope she fights me.
I want her to say no so I can put my hands on her and force her down, so I can feel her struggle against the inevitable.
But she doesn’t.
Her knees hit the plush carpet with a soft thud, right in the middle of the shattered wood of my mother’s violin. She sinks, her gaze locked on mine.
“Open my belt.”
Her hands are trembling as she reaches for the buckle, and I know it’s not fear—it’s rage.
“Good girl.”
The praise slips out, dark and possessive, as she undoes the leather. My breath hitches when her knuckles brush the front of my trousers, the contact searing through the fabric.
“You called me a monster, Anya. Now you’re going to taste him.”
She yanks my zipper down, freeing me, but she doesn’t touch me. She just stares at my cock, her breathing jagged, her chest heaving as she fights a war with herself.
“Take it.”
She leans forward and wraps her mouth around me, hot and wet and tight, and the sensation is so intense my hips jerk forward on instinct.
She’s not being gentle. She’s using too many teeth, sucking too hard, weaponizing her mouth against me in a way that feels dangerously close to pain—and it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever felt.
But I’m not in the mood to let her set the pace.
I tangle my hand in her hair, gripping the silky strands, pulling her scalp, and forcing her head back until she has no choice but to take more of me. She makes a muffled sound of protest, her hands flying up to clutch at my thighs, but I ignore it.
“Deeper.”
I snap my hips forward, burying myself to the hilt, sliding past her guard until I hit the back of her throat. She gags, her eyes watering, but I don’t pull back. I hold her there, feeling her throat constrict around me, squeezing me in a way that makes my vision blur.
“You have so much to say, solnyshko?” I growl the words, threading my fingers tighter through her hair to anchor her in place. “You want to scream at me? Go ahead. Scream around my cock.”
I start to move, fucking her mouth. I pull almost all the way out and slam back in, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm that leaves her no room to breathe, no room to argue, no room to do anything but take what I’m giving her.
Her tongue swirls frantically against the underside of my glans, trying to accommodate me, trying to survive the onslaught. She makes a desperate, keening noise against my skin, and the vibration travels straight down my spine.
I look down at her, at the tears gathering in her lashes, at her cheeks hollowing as she sucks me down, and the sight destroys me. She looks filthy. She looks owned. She looks exactly where she belongs.
I drive into her throat one last time, deep enough to make her whole body shudder, and I have to drag her off me before I shatter right there in her mouth.
I lift and spin her around, bending her over my desk and kicking her legs apart with my foot, and the sound she makes when her tits hit the cold mahogany is somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
I run the head of my cock through her folds without pushing in, just teasing her, watching her hips push back involuntarily, trying to take me.
“Look at you.” I press just the tip inside her, and she moans. “Bent over my desk with your ass in the air, desperate for the monster’s cock. You want to hate me so badly, but your pussy is telling a different story.”
“Just fucking do it already.”
I slam into her in one brutal thrust, and she screams.
I don’t give her time to adjust, don’t ease her into it, my hips snapping against her ass hard enough to shove the desk forward with every thrust.
“So fucking tight.” I’m gripping her hips, watching my cock disappear into her over and over. “Even after everything, even knowing what I am, you take me so well. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”
“I wasn’t—made for—” She can barely get the words out because I’m fucking her so hard she can’t breathe properly. “I wasn’t made for anyone—”
“Yes, you were.” I lean over her back and bite the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. “You were made to be mine. To warm my bed and fill my head and drive me fucking crazy.”
I reach around and find her clit, rubbing in fast, tight circles while I keep pounding into her. She’s making sounds that are almost screams now, her whole body tensing underneath me.
“Come on my cock while you hate me. Let me feel it.”
“I can’t—I hate—”
“You will.” I pinch her clit between my fingers, and she shatters, her pussy squeezing my cock so tight I have to grit my teeth. “That’s it. Good girl. Give me all of it.”
I fuck her through it, harder, chasing my own release now, and when I finally come, I growl her name.
I stay inside her for a long moment afterward, both of us breathing hard, both of us wrecked.
Then I pull out slowly and step back.
She doesn’t move at first, just stays bent over the desk with her eyes closed and her whole body trembling. When she finally straightens up and turns around, her expression is shuttered, closed off, the walls already going back up.
I reach for her.
She steps away.
“Don’t.” Her voice is flat. “Don’t touch me like this, is something it isn’t.”
The rejection stings more than the slap did, but I don’t let it show.
“Anya—”
“We had sex. Angry, fucked up sex.” She’s already retrieving her ruined bra from the floor, her torn panties, gathering the pieces of herself back together.
“That doesn’t mean I forgive you. That doesn’t mean I trust you.
That doesn’t mean anything except we’re both terrible at dealing with our emotions like adults. ”
She steps back into her dress, trying to hold the back closed where I destroyed the zipper.
My phone buzzes on the floor somewhere, probably knocked off the desk when we were—
I find it under a pile of scattered papers.
Luka’s text appears. Interpol filed a sanctions petition. Senate hearing in ten days.
Shit.
I text back. If anything happens to me, you get her and the brother out. Belgium first, then wherever she wants.
His response comes immediately. Understood.
“Interpol filed a sanctions petition. Senate hearing in ten days.”
She pauses.
“What does it mean?”
“I have ten days to either bring down Vadim’s empire or watch it bury us both.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, processing.
“I’ll help you. I don’t know how, but I will.” Her voice is steady now, all the cracks sealed over with ice. “Not because I trust you. Not because I forgive you. Because I refuse to add more bodies to my conscience.”
“And after?”
“After, we’ll see.” She meets my eyes, and there’s nothing soft in her gaze. “Maybe I’ll stay. Maybe I’ll take Mishka and disappear somewhere you’ll never find us. Maybe I’ll testify against you at that Senate hearing and watch you burn.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” She walks toward the door, still holding her dress together. “You wanted a weapon, Roman. Congratulations. You got one. But weapons tend to go off when you least expect them.”
She opens the door.
“Anya.”
She pauses but doesn’t turn around.
“I wasn’t lying about all of it.” The words come out rough. “The way I feel about you. That part was real.”
She’s been quiet for so long, I think she’s not going to respond at all.
“That’s the worst part,” she says finally. “I know.”
She walks out and closes the door behind her.
I stand there in my destroyed study, surrounded by broken glass and scattered papers and the wreckage of my mother’s violin, and I don’t move for a very long time.