2. The Weight of His Hands #2
I shove two fingers back inside her, my thumb circling her clit. She's writhing now, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream. I feel her tightening around me, feel her orgasm building.
"Come for me," I order. "Come on my fingers like the good girl you are."
She shatters.
Her body convulses around my hand, her scream echoing off the walls. I watch her fall apart, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I don't stop. I keep going, pushing her through it, until she's begging me to stop, her hands clutching at my shoulders.
I pull my fingers out and bring them to my mouth, tasting her. Her eyes go wide, a fresh wave of heat coloring her cheeks.
"Delicious," I say.
I line myself up again, but before I enter her, I grab her by the hair and pull her off the desk, onto the floor. The rug is thick, soft, and I press her down onto it, covering her body with mine.
"On your hands and knees," I growl.
She hesitates for a moment, her eyes meeting mine. There's still fire there, still defiance. But there's also trust. And that's what makes it real.
She rolls over, getting onto her hands and knees. Her back arches perfectly, her ass in the air, and I have to take a moment just to look at her.
"Beautiful," I breathe.
I don't give her time to respond. I enter her in one smooth thrust, and she cries out, her arms buckling beneath her. I set a brutal pace, each thrust driving her forward, her fingers clawing at the rug.
I reach around, finding her clit, circling it as I fuck her. She's already close again, I can feel it in the way her body clenches around me.
"You feel that?" I say, my voice rough. "You feel how much you want this? How much you need this?"
"Yes," she sobs. "Yes, Aleksander, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop. Please don't ever stop."
I pull out and flip her over again, needing to see her face. I push inside her, my hands gripping her hips, lifting her legs to wrap around my waist. I fuck her deep, slow, watching every expression that crosses her face.
"You're mine," I say again. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she breathes. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—"
I feel her orgasm building, and I want to be there with her. I want to fall apart together.
"Come for me," I command. "Come with me."
She does.
Her body tightens around mine, her back arching, her nails raking down my shoulders. I feel the sting, and it only pushes me closer. I drive into her, once, twice, three times, and then I'm coming too, burying my face in her neck, groaning her name like a prayer.
We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together on the rug. I can feel her heart pounding against my chest, her breath warm against my skin.
I roll off her, pulling her into my arms. She's trembling, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my chest.
"That was..." she starts.
"Intense?" I offer.
"Perfect," she says.
I look down at her, at the flush on her cheeks, the marks on her skin. "Did I hurt you?"
She smiles, a slow, wicked thing. "Not enough."
I laugh, pulling her closer. "Next time."
Her head is on my chest. My arms are wrapped around her. The fire is crackling in the hearth, casting shadows across the walls. The library is quiet, the only sound our breathing.
"I love you," I say.
I don't know why I say it. I don't know if I mean it. I don't know anything anymore.
She doesn't say it back. She just holds me tighter.
And I let her.
"I should let you go," I say. "I should let you leave."
"I know."
I can feel her heartbeat against my ribs. It's slow, steady. The same rhythm that's been keeping me alive for the past year.
"I can't, Monika. I'm not strong enough."
She sits up. She looks at me, her eyes steady, her face calm. She looks like a woman who has made peace with her fate.
"Then don't," she says. "Don't let me go."
I touch her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers.
"I love you," I say again.
She kisses me. Soft, tender, everything I don't deserve.
I kiss her back.
And I pretend I can keep her.
I walk her to her room.
The house is dark, the servants gone to bed, the only light the moon through the windows. We don't speak. There's nothing left to say.
She stops at her door. Turns to face me.
"Tomorrow," I say. "We'll talk."
"Talk about what?"
"Everything."
She nods. She doesn't believe me. Neither do I.
She closes the door. I stand in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the wood.
I think about Elena. About the child she was carrying when she died. About the family I lost and the family I've been trying to hold together ever since.
I think about Monika. About the weight of her hands. About the way she looks at me like I'm not a monster.
And I think about my sons.
Gabriel, retreating into his greenhouse, his ideals, his desperate hope that he can still be something other than what he was born to be.
Nathan, spiraling into darkness, pushing the empire into territory I never wanted to touch.
They're both trying to claim her. They're both trying to own her. And I'm losing control of both of them.
I walk to my study. I pour myself a drink. I stare at the fire and wonder how long the glass can hold.
The mansion is never quiet.
Even in the dead of night, when the rest of the world is sleeping, this house is alive with ghosts. The creak of old wood. The whisper of the heating system. The distant sound of footsteps that might be my sons or might be my imagination.
I sit in my study, the fire casting shadows on the walls, and I think about all the things I've done to build this empire. All the blood I've spilled. All the lives I've taken. All the women I've used and discarded.
I think about Elena. I think about her every day. I wonder if she'd hate me. I wonder if she'd understand.
And I think about Monika. About the weight of her hands. About the way she looks at me like I'm something more than what I am.
She's the first woman who's made me feel alive since Elena. She's the first person who's made me want to be better.
But I'm too old to change. I'm too broken to fix. I'm too dangerous to love.
And yet she stays.
She stays.
The clock strikes midnight.
I finish my drink and stand. The fire has burned low, leaving only embers and ash. I should go to bed. I should try to sleep.
But I don't.
I walk through the mansion, my footsteps silent on the marble. I pass the portrait of Elena in the hallway. I pass the door to Gabriel's room, dark and silent. I pass the door to Nathan's room, where a sliver of light tells me he's still awake.
I stop outside Monika's door.
I don't knock. I press my palm against the wood and feel the warmth of her on the other side.
"Monika," I whisper.
There's no answer. I didn't expect one.
I lean my forehead against the door.
"I love you," I say. "Even if you don't love me back. Even if you hate me. I love you."
I stand there for a long time.
Then I walk away.
I don't sleep that night.
I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, and I think about all the things I've lost. All the things I've built. All the things I'm about to destroy.
I'm going to destroy her. I'm going to destroy her the way I've destroyed everything else I've ever touched.
Because I don't know how to love without consuming.
Because I don't know how to let go.
I close my eyes and see her face. Her steady eyes. Her steady hands. The small furrow between her brows.
I reach for her in the dark, and she's not there.
She's never there.