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Perfectly in sync.
Like we’d have ended up here, in one way or another, no matter how many twists and turns it took to bring us to this moment.
Like this was always going to happen.
Like neither of us ever had a choice.
Then I dive into her and all thoughts of fate and purpose go out the fucking window. There is only Wren—her wetness and her heat and her whimpering as she clings to me and I fuck her like I’ll never get to do it again.
It strikes me towards the end, as we both race towards our climaxes, that if I want to get Wren out of my system, fucking her is definitely not the way to do it. For that to happen, I might have to stop altogether. Go cold turkey.
And you could give me all the money, all the territory, all the power in the world…
But that’s still not gonna fucking happen.
50
DMITRI
Nothing gets me in a bad mood faster than seeing Vittorio’s name on my lock screen.
VITTORIO ZANETTI: 4 missed calls.
“Motherfucker,” I mumble under my breath.
“Talking about my father?” Bee asks, poking her head from around the kitchen corner.
I join her in there and grab a beer from the fridge, angrily twisting off the cap and pitching it into the trash can. “Who else? He wants the wedding moved up again. Apparently, ‘soon’ isn’t soon enough.”
Her lip curls up like she’s smelling something rotten. “‘Motherfucker’ isn’t ‘motherfucker’ enough, either.” Sighing, she sticks her plate in the sink and cracks her neck from side to side. “I’m heading out tonight, ‘kay?”
“Bee—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupts before I can begin expressing my frustration. “I’m not going anywhere overly exposed. Plus, I’m an expert at covering my tracks, so don’t worry.” She slinks past me, running a hand over my shoulders. “So tense. You should really find a way to work out all those knots. A massage, perhaps? Or maybe a little romp in the?—”
“Fuck off, Bee.”
Her laugh lingers long after she’s gone.
I wish I had a better retort, but I’m on my last vestiges of willpower lately. Running on pure fumes.
The last three days have been an exercise in discipline. Only one fuck a day? It’s like telling a man in the desert to content himself with a single drop of water.
One fuck isn’t enough. Two wouldn’t be. Nor would five, or ten. It takes me literal seconds from the time I finish to get hungry enough to devour Wren again.
It’s becoming a problem. Well, more of a problem than it already was. So I’m going out of my way to spend as much time out of the penthouse as possible.
Between Egorov’s normal business dealings and this burgeoning Bratva war with the Irish, I have plenty to keep my hands occupied. The same can’t be said for my mind, though. Every spare moment I have invariably ends with me lassoed into a fantasy of Wren.
Her legs spread for me in invitation.
Those mossy green eyes as she crawls her way down my body…
I have never been the type of man to notice the irrelevant details. Freckles, birthmarks, this scar here or that way she moans when I touch her there, like that.
But suddenly, I’m noticing it all.
And every single thing is a stronger aphrodisiac than the last. I find myself hurrying to finish my work so that I can get back home, so that I can find an excuse to seek her out, to explore her body more and more. To discover new freckles, new marks on her body, new ways of making her scream.
