It completely wrecks me. My climax explodes, a convulsive wave that rips through my core, milking his cock. I scream, my body seizing, my inner walls fluttering around him uncontrollably. He groans, a deep, satisfied sound, and his rhythm falters. I feel him pulse inside me, the hot, sudden flood of his release filling me up. He thrusts through it, shallow and urgent, painting my insides with his cum.
We collapse forward, a heap of trembling limbs and ragged breaths. His weight settles over me, a crushing, grounding anchor that keeps me from drifting off the edge of the world. His face is buried in the crook of my neck, his hot breath ghosting over my damp skin. His heartbeat thunders against my back—a frantic, uneven rhythm that matches my own.
The warmth of his spend begins to seep out of me, a sticky, intimate trickle down my thigh that feels like a mark of ownership.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our labored breathing and the rhythmic, mocking drip of the faucet. The violence of before has melted into this heavy, spent warmth, butthe air still feels charged, like a storm that hasn't fully passed. His hand, which had been gripping my hip like a vise, begins to move. He strokes my side, a faint, almost reluctant caress that makes my skin prickle.
"Look at you," he murmurs against my skin, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. "Completely wrecked."
A shaky, breathless laugh escapes me, half-sob and half-tease. "You’re one to talk. Your hands are shaking, Mikhail."
He huffs a dark, dry sound—not quite a laugh, but close. He lifts his head just enough to look at me, his thumb catching a stray tear on my cheek and dragging it downward. "Only because I had to work so hard to get a sound out of you. You’re stubborn,dorogaya. Even when you’re coming apart, you try to hold back."
"I didn't hold back," I whisper, my eyes fluttering shut as he nips gently at my shoulder.
"No?" He shifts, his softening cock slipping from my body with a wet, soft sound that makes me shiver. He doesn't pull away, though. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "Next time, I’ll make sure you’re screaming so loud the guards in the hall think I’m killing you. Or maybe I’ll just keep you right here on this desk until you beg me to stop."
The dirty promise sends a fresh jolt of heat through me, but it’s followed immediately by a wave of something cold and terrifying. I feel an overwhelming surge of emotion—love, terror,and a desperate, aching need to confess everything. It’s a weight in my chest, a pressure that makes it hard to draw air. I want to wrap my legs around him and never let go; I want to push him away before he sees how much of me he actually has.
He turns me in his arms, forcing me to face him. His eyes search mine, the fury from earlier replaced by something cloudy and unreadable. He looks at me as if I’m a puzzle he’s finally starting to solve.
He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip, his gaze dropping to the scar on my hip for a split second before returning to my eyes. The teasing is completely gone, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.
"Artyom is out of surgery and stable for the night," he rasps, his grip on my waist shifting to pull me down onto the mattress with him. "I’m not driving back to Manhattan in the dark when I can barely see straight. We’re sleeping. I’ll head back to the clinic at dawn."
"I know," I say, my voice sounding completely wrecked, mirroring the strange, hollow ache opening up in my stomach.
Before I can move or gather the scattered pieces of my pride, Mikhail pulls me flush against his side, his massive arm locking over my waist like a heavy iron band. He doesn't say another word. He just leans down and presses a slow, quiet kiss directly against my forehead.
It’s a gesture so unexpectedly sweet, so terrifyingly tender, that it hurts worse than the sting on my skin ever could. It makes me want to scream the truth to him...
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Iwake up feeling like I’ve been put through a meat grinder. Every time I move, my body reminds me of the marble vanity in the bathroom and the way Mikhail used me to burn off the adrenaline of the explosion. I’m sore in places I didn’t know had nerves, but the physical ache is nothing compared to the lead weight sitting in my stomach.
I look at Mikhail, who is sitting on the edge of the bed. His back is a map of dark bruises today, purple and angry yellow blooming across his ribs. He’s staring at a stack of files on the nightstand, his jaw set in that hard, uncompromising line that usually means someone is about to have a very bad day.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel.
Mikhail doesn't look back. He just reaches for a clean black shirt. "I’ve had worse. I’m going to the hospital. Artyom is awake, and the doctors say he’s stable enough for visitors."
"I’m coming with you."
He pauses, one arm halfway through a sleeve. He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes searching mine. "You don't have to, Irina. It’s not going to be a pleasant morning. My sisters are there. My father might even try to crawl out of his hole to show his face."
"I'm your wife. Whether we like it or not, that means I’m part of this."
And because if I stay here, I’ll just stare at the burner phone until I lose my mind.
Mikhail gives me a short, grim nod. "Fine.”
The drive to the hospital is quiet. Mikhail is on his phone the entire time, barking orders to Lev about security at the North Docks and "clean-up" at the factory. He looks like he’s holding back a tidal wave of rage with nothing but sheer willpower. I watch the city blur past the window, thinking about Boris's ultimatum. If I don't give him the payroll records, he tells Mikhail about my secret. If I do give them to him, I’m the reason the Morozovs fall.
I’m screwed. No matter what I choose, I’m the villain in someone’s story.
The Morozov private hospital wing is more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility, except for the four guards standing atthe entrance with their hands on their holsters. We pass through two security checkpoints before we reach Artyom’s suite.
The room is crowded. Kira is sitting in a chair right next to Artyom’s bed, her hand locked in his. She looks exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed, but there’s a fierce, protective energy coming off her. Artyom looks rough—he has a bandage wrapped around his head and his arm is in a cast, but his eyes are open and sharp.
