Chapter 23 #2
“This is going to feel strange at first.” I warm the lubricant between my fingers, then circle her other entrance. “Breathe through it. Let me in.”
Her whole body tenses when I press the first finger against her ass, instinct fighting surrender.
“Dyshi, kroshka.” Breathe, little one. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with a finger in your—oh.”
The first finger slides inside her slowly, carefully, and I watch the flutter of her lashes, the bitten lip, the flush spreading down her chest. She’s so fucking tight around my finger, so hot, and my cock is leaking in my pants just thinking about what comes next.
“How does that feel?”
“Strange.” She laughs breathlessly. “Full. Like—” She breaks off when I add more lubricant and work deeper. “Oh god.”
“Good strange, or bad strange?”
“I don’t know yet.” Her hands fist in the sheets. “Keep going.”
I work her open slowly, adding more lubricant, stretching her gently until she’s relaxed enough to take a second finger. Her moans have changed—less uncertain, more desperate—and when I scissor my fingers apart, she actually whimpers.
“Bozhe moy—”
“You’re doing so well.” I kiss her inner thigh, the soft skin trembling under my lips. “Such a good girl. Taking everything I give you.”
The praise makes her soften around my fingers, her body finally accepting the intrusion, and I know she’s ready for the plug.
“This is going to stretch you,” I warn her. “The widest part will burn. But then it’ll settle. Ready?”
She nods.
I push the plug inside her slowly.
“Blyad’—” The word comes out strangled. “That’s—fuck—”
“How does it feel?”
“Full.” Her laugh is shaky. “Really, really full. Like there’s no room for anything else.”
“There’s room.” I slide two fingers inside her pussy and feel the plug through the thin wall of tissue, and the noise she makes is obscene—half moan, half sob. “Feel that? Feel me everywhere?”
“Yes—god—I can feel everything—”
“Good.” I withdraw my fingers and stand to strip off my clothes. Her eyes track down my chest, my stomach, the hard length of my cock standing out from my body, and she swallows hard.
“You’re—” She stops.
“I’m what?”
“Big.” Her voice is small. “And I’m already so full.”
“You’ll take it.” I stroke myself once, twice, spreading the precum that’s been leaking since I first tasted her.
I position myself at her entrance, and the head of my cock nudges through her folds, and I can feel the plug through the thin wall between us, the hard steel pressing against my shaft.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” Her hands find my shoulders, nails digging in. “Please, Roman. I need you inside me.”
I push in.
The stretch is devastating, a beautiful, brutal invasion that wrings a sob from her throat and a growl from mine.
I am buried so deep in her I can’t tell where my body ends, and her surrender begins.
The pressure is exquisite torture, the steel plug and my flesh warring for space inside her, claiming every inch of her hollows until she is completely, irrevocably filled with me.
She’s shaking underneath me, little tremors running through her whole body, and the noise she makes when I bottom out is driving me crazy.
“Chyort—” I have to stop moving, have to breathe through the urge to pound into her until we’re both screaming. “You feel—blyad’, Anya—so fucking tight—”
“Move.” Her nails rake down my back, drawing blood. “Please, Roman, I need you to move—”
I start slow because I have to, because if I don’t, I’ll come in thirty seconds like a fucking teenager. But she’s making sounds I’ve never heard, and they destroy what’s left of my control.
“Feel that?” I grind against her, as deep as I can go, and press the base of the plug with my thumb. “Feel me everywhere? Both holes are full. All of it mine.”
“Yes—” Her voice breaks. “God, yes—all yours—”
“That’s right.” I pull back and thrust hard, and she screams. “Say it again.”
“Yours—I’m yours—fuck—”
I shift angles and find the spot where my cock and the plug converge, and her scream is so loud I’m sure the guards outside can hear it. Good. Let them hear. Let them know what I do to her. Let them understand that she’s mine.
“Who do you belong to?” I pound into her harder, one hand gripping her hip, the other pressing the plug deeper on every thrust.
“You—” She’s crying now, tears streaming down her face, but her hips are bucking up to meet every stroke. “I belong to you—”
“Say my name.”
“Roman—” Her nails tear into my shoulders. “Roman, please, I need to come—”
“Ask permission.”
“Please let me come—” Her voice is ragged. “Please, I can’t—I need—”
“Come.” I bury myself to the hilt and press her clit with my thumb. “Konchi dlya menya.”
She shatters.
The orgasm rips through her—pussy clenching so hard around my cock it almost hurts, back arching, nails tearing my shoulders bloody—and I fuck her through it, through every convulsion. When the second wave hits, I follow her over the edge with a groan that feels torn from somewhere vital.
For thirty seconds, there’s nothing but pleasure and her body and my name on her lips.
Then reality returns.
I pull out carefully, ease the plug from her ass, and clean her with warm cloths while she lies there shaking.
“Hey.” I tilt her face up when I’m done. Her eyes are glazed, tear-streaked, beautiful. “Color?”
“So green.” Her laugh is wet. “Green like a forest. Green like—” She snorts suddenly, the sound undignified and startled, and claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh god. That was ugly.”
I smile. “It really was.”
“Shut up.” But she’s smiling now, tears and laughter mixing. “You fucked me stupid. What do you expect?”
“More of those sounds, probably.”
She shoves my shoulder weakly. “Asshole.”
“Accurate.”
* * *
Later—after she’s slept and woken and eaten black bread and tvorog and pickled cucumbers from the dacha kitchen—I find her in my hidden room.
She’s curled in the leather chair by the window with a book in her lap. One of mine—a battered copy of The Master and Margarita that I’ve read so many times, the spine is held together with tape. Her hair is still damp from the shower. She’s wearing my shirt. Her feet are bare.
My mother would have scolded me, I fucking love it. I just watch her from the doorway and wonder how she managed to contaminate this space so quickly.
“I didn’t know you read Bulgakov,” she says without looking up.
“My mother’s favorite.” I cross to the violin case, run my fingers over the clasps. “She used to read it to me when I couldn’t sleep.”
Anya looks up then.
“Will you play?”
The violin is the only piece of my soul Vadim never managed to stain. It is the one thing in this house of horrors that doesn’t smell of blood and betrayal. It is pure. And playing for her feels more dangerous than putting a gun in her hand.
But she’s looking at me with those grey eyes, wearing my shirt, her body still marked by my hands, and I can’t tell her no.
Fuck.
I lift the Guarneri from its case.
The first note is wrong—my fingers stiff—but I adjust and try again, and suddenly the music is pouring out of me the way it hasn’t in years. Tchaikovsky. Valse Sentimentale. My mother’s favorite piece.
I close my eyes and play through the ghosts.
For five minutes, there’s no war. No Vadim. No contracts on my head. Just music and the woman I—
The door bangs open.
Luka stands in the frame, phone in hand, face grim. “We have a problem.”
The violin lowers. Reality crashes back in. “What?”
“Vadim moved up the timeline. Three of our captains just switched sides.” His eyes flick to Anya, then back to me. “We need to go. Now.”
I lock the case. The music is over. Now the killing starts.