I thrust into her again. And again, and again.
Until her fingers claw the tile. Until her whole body locks and shatters around me, and I spill inside her.
I slide my fingers over her clit, circling, rubbing.
She comes again, hard and breathless, screaming into the steam-filled air. Her scream ends with a sniff.
Is she… crying?
I stop moving inside her, still seated deep.
I wait.
But when I look at her, I can’t tell. Her face is pink, but it’s warm in here.
I take the washcloth and clean her, then clean myself, rinsing us under the water before I shut it off. My stomach growls.
“Hungry?” she asks.
“I’ve been going from one place to the next, barely stopping to eat. I’m fucking starving,” I tell her. “You?”
“Famished.”
I hand her a towel, and we dry off; then I take her into my room.
“You live here alone?” She looks around. My bedroom is small and clean, but not immaculately clean like my cousin Semyon’s place or messy and quirky like Rodion’s. It works. I only sleep in here.
I watch as her gaze falls on the cage just waiting for her in the corner, the pink lights twinkling, the bed on the floor made and ready for her. She has the audacity tosmirk.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she says in a low purr.
I open my mouth to retort when the sound of someone else’s voice stops me.
“Hello?” a voice calls from downstairs.
“Are youfuckingkidding me?”
Her eyes fly to mine.
“I thought you just told me you lived alone.”
“I do,” I tell her through gritted teeth.
“Then who’s that? Are we even in your house?”
She doesn’t look vulnerable like some women would, standing in a stranger’s home, still flushed from getting fucked hard, wearing nothing but a towel, hair still wet and dripping down her face. No, she just looks pissed off.
“Those must be my parents. They’re the only people who have access to my house. Except Rafail. He has access to everything.”
For the first time, a glimmer of fear flickers in her eyes. She doesn’t want to see Rafail.
Tough shit.
“You let your parents just walk in like that?” she asks, tipping her head to the side, curious.
“Yeah, they have keys.” Because I feel guilty that their youngest son is dead, and I’m the one responsible. Because they’re theblack sheep of the Bratva, and I owe them something for giving me life. Parental guilt’s a brutal bitch, and I’m not immune to it.
“Interesting,” she says. “So do you want me to go out there in a towel and scare them away?”
