Page 148 of 10 Days to Ruin

He drags me through the lobby without breaking stride. The elevator doors barely shut before he’s on me.

My back hits polished steel, his knee nudging my thighs apart as the numbers climb. 42. 57. 68. His teeth graze the claiming mark he left earlier this week, right above the choker. I palm his hardness through his pants.

“You’re shaking,” he observes.

“So are you.”

The elevator dings.Penthouse.

He pulls me down the hallway by my hand, both of us laughing, our footsteps echoing through the vaulted space. Moonlight pools around the floating bed where he’s taken me before—but tonight feels different. Final. A drumroll crescendo before the guillotine drops.

“Clothes off.” He growls it against the shell of my ear, fingers already working the zipper of my dress. “Now.”

I spin in his arms, pressing my half-bare back to his chest. “I’ll need your help, Mr. Ozerov.”

He takes his time dragging down the zipper. As if every new inch of skin revealed needs to be properly worshipped. By the time the dress is a puddle of black silk around my ankles, I’m a puddle in my own right.

I hear the clink of his belt hitting marble. The rustle of fabric. The wet heat of his mouth on my shoulder as his palms slide up my ribs to cup my breasts.

“Better?” he asks.

I arch into his touch, watching our reflection warp in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Two monsters silhouetted in lust. “Getting there.”

“We’ve got a long way yet to go,ptichka.”

The possessive rasp undoes me. I turn, crashing our mouths together as we stagger toward the bed. His cock presses against my stomach, urgent and lethal as the rest of him.

I bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “Say it again.”

He spreads me across cold silk sheets, eyes glittering like icebergs in the dark. “Ptichka.My little bird. Mine. My wife. My queen. My vengeance made flesh.” His tongue licks a stripe up my inner thigh. “Now, lie still while I worship what’s mine.”

I thread fingers through his hair—too hard, just how he likes it—as he drags the flat of his tongue over me. I revel in the way his groan vibrates against my clit. “You’re… fucking… deranged.”

His chuckle is pure sin. “But you’ll scream for me anyway.”

Then he pulls me on top of him. The first stroke is always the one I remember best. The last moment of clarity before the moments start melting together into one heat-soaked blur. Butthisfirst stroke—this moment, when his tip splits me open and then the rest of him slowly pushes in, stretching me wide, making me gasp and drool onto his chest…

This is one I’ll remember forever.

He takes it slow at first, though I’ll be damned if I know where he finds the self-control. Lord knows I left all of mine seventy stories below us.

But slow he goes. One stroke. Two. Savoring every millimeter of motion and friction and tightness. I’m bearing down on him as the first orgasm breaks over me like I’m being baptized into a new world. It’s a splashing, relieving kind of thing and it consumes all of me.

Then he flips me beneath him and the speed picks up. Before long, his balls are slapping at me as each fuck spears deeper and deeper than ever before. I’m sweating, he’s sweating, but when I lick a droplet from his scarred neck, it’s as sweet as nectar to me.

Sasha can do no wrong now. When he puts me on my knees and fucks me from behind, it’s perfect.

When I taste myself on his cock as he licks my pussy at the same time, it’s perfect.

Whether he is behind me and beneath me and above me and within me, I’m just coming endlessly, no division between one orgasm and the next, just a long, breathless fugue that takes us higher and higher until at long last, with a guttural roar, Sasha says, “I’m almost there.”

I lock my legs behind the small of his back and pull his forehead down to kiss against mine. Then, staring into the blue windows of his soul, I beg him, “Come in me, Sasha. Make me yours in every way that counts.”

Then his mouth finds mine again, and sound becomes irrelevant.

Afterward, we lie sprawled in thousand-thread-count sheets that’ll never be clean again. My head rests over the scar at his throat, rising and falling with each breath. He traces idle patterns on my hip.

“I have something for you,” he says at last.

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