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I couldn’t hold myself back any longer. I wrapped my fingers around his torso and threw him to my side, then turned him around and climbed on top of him. With Nikolai now on his back, I moved the pillow and placed his heavenly head on it, the blond curls spilling down onto the pillowcase like liquid gold. The moonlight from the window reflected off of his light blue eyes and, as I lifted my hips to begin fucking him once more, I saw them twinkle with desire, sparkle with love—even if it was just the fleeting love one feels during insane, passionate, nonsensical sex.
I pegged his hands down to the bed with my own, pushing them against the mattress on both sides of his head. He was technically “the boss,” but not at that moment, no—I was going to make him my own. I pounded his hole relentlessly, placing my hand over his mouth once more so no one could hear his loud moans of pleasure; I even felt his tongue begin to dart at my hand, licking the salt from my skin as I felt a growing build up in my groin. I slapped my body as powerfully against his as I could, my cock tearing through his hole and into his stomach as the tingle began to swell through my body like a wave—I was going to cum, I was going to cum, I was cuming, I was cuming. I was cuming.
Fuck. Me. I. Was. Cuming. Like a mad man.
Oh. My. God.
I pumped my load into him over and over and over, then lay my chest down on his, breathing heavily as if I’d just run a marathon. I twitched a few times as I held onto him, running my fingers through his hair until I realized…
His hair was not there. Nikolai was not there. I was alone, my dick poking out from the top of my underwear, a wet mess beneath me.
It was all in my head.
I was losing my mind.
It was all.
Just.
A dream.
Chapter 8
Nikolai
I woke to the sound of loud gunshots firing. I threw the covers off of myself and got out of bed. Wrapping my arms around my chest for warmth, I peered out a frosty window to a cloud-filled sky, the winter sun beginning to rise and barely poking through. Down on the withered grass, Svetlana stood wearing a giant black puffer coat and slim black leggings, aiming a shotgun at one of four targets that stood before her. Each target appeared to have photographs of different men plastered to the, two of which were already blown to smithereens. Her stance firm and powerful, she pulled the trigger, the gun’s force jerking her slim figure backwards as the third photograph exploded with the bullet’s puissant force.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I said. The door opened and Damien, dressed once again in a black suit and a white button-down shirt, came in. “Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning,” he said back, still standing in the doorway. He seemed a bit bewildered by me, nervous even. I had no idea why—maybe it was because I’d been in such a mood yesterday.
Could he really blame me?
“Do you want to come in?” I asked. Damien didn’t reply but walked toward the bed and sat himself down. I heard another gunshot outside and looked back out the window.
“Don’t mind her,” I heard Damien say. “Every morning she does target practice on her four ex-husbands.”
I looked back out the window again. Svetlana carried the large shotgun over her shoulder, walking a few steps to her right until she stood perfectly poised in front of the last target. She aimed, a single clump of her silky black hair blowing in the morning wind, and once again pulled the trigger, the gun’s roar echoing across the estate’s snowy grounds, unsettling any birds that had returned after her last explosion. I saw Svetlana spit on the ground, stomp her black leather boot where she’d spat, and then throw the shotgun on the grass.
“Bad marriages?” I asked, turning my head to face Damien.
“You could say that,” he replied. “Mob husbands aren’t always…the best to their wives. Most of them cheated on her. Two of them hit her. She has a scar on her left arm where one,
drunk and blind with rage for absolutely no reason, took a knife to her.”
“Did she run away from them?” I asked. “Or, or what happened?
“Svetlana is not one to run away from problems,” he replied. I noticed he still seemed to be having trouble making eye contact with me. As badly as I wanted to sit on the bed and be next to him, I remained by the window, resisting. I was steadfast in my belief that even the slightest touch might attach me to him, especially in this time of need. I just couldn’t risk it.
Having feelings for him would only wind up with me hurt.
He was a gangster. He would get shot. He would be taken from me. This was just the way of life.
“Then how’d she get away?” I asked.
“She shot them,” Damien replied. I gasped, my heart beginning to race.
