I blink, dazed, but he's already moving. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, lays me back on the sheets, and yanks my legs up, spreading them wide over his shoulders. My breath catches at the raw hunger in his eyes. There's no gentleness now, just the primal sound of him dragging his cock out of me and then thrusting back in, hard and deep.
"Fuck," I cry, eyes flying open.
The angle is different. He hits deeper than before, driving up into me like he's chasing something sacred. My hands scramble for the sheets, for him, for anything. His grip tightens.
"You feel that?" he grits out, hips slamming into mine. "How deep I am?"
"Yes. God, yes!"
The bed creaks violently beneath us. Each thrust pushes me higher on the mattress. My legs shake against his shoulders. He lowers slightly, folding me in half.
"Open for me," he demands.
I do.
"Good girl."
I whimper at the praise, at the drag of his cock pulling almost all the way out before plunging in again. My mouth falls open. I can't even moan now, just breathless sounds, broken syllables. My body is slick with sweat, flushed and burning. I feel exposed, taken, worshiped and ruined all at once.
"You look so fucking pretty like this," he says, eyes on my face, my breasts, my wrecked mouth. "You were made to be fucked like this. You know that?"
I nod. I can't speak.
He thrusts harder. "Say it," he growls, breaths ragged. "Say you want more."
"I want—" My voice breaks. "I want more."
His hand leaves my thigh, slides down, finds my clit.
"Oh, God!"
"You're gonna come again," he says, rubbing tight circles as he pounds into me. I'm close. So close. It builds fast, like fire from the inside out. My back arches. My nails claw for purchase. My thighs tense over his shoulders, and then it comes, making my vision swim.
He doesn't stop. He fucks me through it, groaning deep in his chest, his rhythm faltering now. Minutes later, he swears, dark and guttural, thrusts once—twice—and then buries himself to the hilt, shuddering hard. His growl tears loose against my throat as comes, hips jerking, muscles going taut.
When it ends, he collapses over me, chest heaving, face pressed to my neck. His weight is grounding. His breath is hot. His cock is still inside me, twitching with aftershocks.
"You're going to kill me if you do that again," he says, laughing gruffly.
I grin back at him. "Maybe that's the plan."
We lie there, tangled and sweating, sheets twisted. The city glitters outside, uncaring. Eventually, he pulls out, collapsesbeside me, arm slung over his eyes, chest heaving. I listen to his breaths slow, my own heart still racing. After a while, he pulls me to him. My head is on his chest, his arm tight around my shoulders. It should feel dangerous. Instead, it feels like safety, or the closest I've ever come.
Slowly, he falls asleep. I study the cut of his jaw, his tattoos, the bruises on his ribs, the way the moonlight stripes his torso. In sleep, he's defenseless. He trusts me enough to let go.
I memorize the moment, the city, the stranger, the aftermath. I let myself exist here, just for tonight, with all my walls down. Tonight, I'm nobody's daughter, nobody's soldier, nobody's pawn. Just Zoya. Just this.
6
ZOYA
The morning after, he's already at the window, bare torso striped with early light, phone pressed to his ear. His voice is warm and smooth, the words clipped, some English, some French, sometimes Russian. I never catch a name. He ends the call and glances back to see if I'm awake. I close my eyes, fake sleep, but he must know.
He brings me coffee in bed, strong, black, scalding. He sits beside me, close but not touching. We watch the city together, silent except for the birds and the muted traffic below. I study his profile while he stares out the glass—how perfectly still he can be, how nothing gives him away except the muscle ticking in his jaw when he's thinking too hard. I want to ask what he sees. Instead, I say thank you. He smiles, the lines around his eyes creasing, and takes my hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He calls meZimushka, likening me to winter, and he much prefers it to Sofia. He's careful with the name, like it's valuable.
The days blur. Dimitri is worried at my absence, but I call him enough to let him know I'm fine and that when the time's up, I'll follow him back home. He loves me enough to believe me,although I know he's afraid of how much I'll hurt myself. The truth is, I can't stop, even if I tried.