Page 13 of Crystal Wrath
“Open your eyes,” I grumble. “I want you to look at me as I fill you up with my cum.”
Her eyes snap open, and her mouth opens in a silent gasp. Her back bows as another release begins to ripple through her core. I swear in Russian and pound her even harder. The muscles in my back tighten as I explode inside her, my hot cum splashing her inner walls.
I sink onto the bed beside her, drawing her into the curve of my body. We stay tangled together in silence, her breath slowing until I feel the subtle shift of her muscles relaxing against me, sleep gently pulling her under. I close my eyes and breathe her in, thinking to myself that nothing has ever felt this right, this consuming.
5
ELENA
The morning after shouldn't feel like this. My limbs are still heavy, my skin still humming, and the taste of him lingers faintly on my lips like the final notes of a song that refuses to fade. I lie there for a moment in the haze of half-sleep, the silk sheets cool against my bare legs, Renat's scent wrapped around me like an invisible chain. But the warmth I feel isn't safety. It's a warning.
I have crossed a line I told myself I would never approach, let alone tumble over with the kind of reckless, breathless abandon I gave in to last night. And now I have to live with that choice.
Renat is no ordinary man. He is power wrapped in precision. Charisma with teeth. A walking contradiction. Sophisticated and savage in equal measures. And I, Elena Martinez, an investigative journalist with a moral compass sharp enough to draw blood, just slept with the very man I came here to expose.What the hell am I doing?
I slide out of bed without a sound, careful not to disturb him. His body is sprawled across the other side of the mattress, the faint glow of sunrise catching the ridges of his bare back. I can’t look at him for too long. If I do, I will forget what I came here for.I will forget the families in Little Havana, the displacement, the corruption. I will ignore the danger and fall right back into bed with him.
Last night was a lapse. One I will not repeat. I find my dress on the floor, slip it on, and snatch my heels from where they were abandoned near the door. My reflection in the gilded mirror over the dresser stops me in my tracks. My hair is a mess, my lipstick is long gone, and there is a faint flush across my cheeks that makes me look younger. Softer.
I don’t have time for softness. Not when the story I’m chasing could burn down half of Miami's elite.
The walk of shame feels even worse when you are in the same dress you wore the night before, your hair tangled from a corrupt Russian’s fingers, and your neck marked with evidence of his passion.
The early morning air is saturated with humidity as I exit the Marcelli estate. My phone shows three missed calls from Amelia and a text asking if I am alive. I text her back quickly, assuring her I’m fine and asking to meet at our usual café in an hour.
The taxi driver mercifully doesn’t comment on my appearance, though I catch his knowing glance in the rearview mirror. I sink into the backseat, exhaustion finally catching up with me.
The events of last night play through my mind like a movie I can’t pause. Renat's hands on my skin, his lips trailing fire down my body, the way he whispered my name against my neck as if it were a sacred incantation. My body still tingles from his touch, traitorously remembering every caress, every kiss, every moment of pleasure.
I close my eyes, trying to push those memories away and focus on the story. That’s the reason I infiltrated that party in the first place. Little Havana is undergoing rapid change, with longtime residents being displaced by rising rents and suspicious evictions.
My investigation has led me to believe that Renat Rostov is behind much of it, using shell companies and political connections to quietly acquire property and push out the neighborhood's Cuban community. But proving it has been nearly impossible. Until now. Being so close to him, I might finally have a chance to gather concrete evidence. If I can keep my head straight and my heart locked down.
By the time I walk into Morning Brew, a charming little corner café with honey-tinted wood tables and fresh pastries displayed behind glass, Amelia is already seated, sipping a cappuccino and wearing a knowing look in her ocean-blue eyes.
“Late night?” she asks as I drop into the chair across from her.
“Something like that,” I murmur, stirring sugar into my coffee. She leans forward, her glossy blonde ponytail bouncing with the movement.
“Tell me everything. Start from the top. Did you pretend to be the mysterious heiress?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone fall for it?”
“Most people, yes. But not Renat Rostov.”
Amelia lets out a low whistle. “Damn. And?”
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the ceramic cup. “And I think I am in over my head.”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “What happened?”
“He saw right through me,” I say quietly. “Almost immediately. But he didn’t out me. He played along. I think he was intrigued. Or maybe amused.”
“Renat Rostov doesn’t strike me as the type to do anything for amusement.”
I meet her gaze and hesitate, nibbling on my lower lip. “I ended up in his private room,” I admit. “He asked me questions. I gave vague answers. Then things happened.”
