His hand slides over the curve of my ass, then slips lower. He peels the lace down with slow precision, baring me fully before stepping in. The rough press of his slacks against the backs of my thighs makes me shiver.
His hands spread steadily across my hips, and I feel the hard press of his cock through his slacks, thick against my ass as he leans in close. His mouth brushes my ear.
“Stay just like that.”
The sound of his zipper breaking open sends a bolt of heat straight to my core. I hear the rustle of fabric, the low hiss of his breath as he frees himself. One hand slips between my legs, fingers sliding through my slick folds. He doesn’t tease. He just grunts low and pulls back to line himself up.
Then he drives into me in one brutal thrust.
My palms slap the wall. My body jolts forward, stretched wide around his thick length. He fills me completely, hips locked against mine, and I cry out—half in shock, half in pleasure.
“Fuck,” he growls. “You feel that? This pussy was made for me.”
He withdraws slowly and slams back in, and this time, my body takes him deeper. The rhythm he sets is ruthless, his hands gripping my waist hard enough to bruise as he pounds into me from behind. Every thrust forces a sound from my throat, every drag of his cock knocks the breath from my lungs. I brace against the wall, legs shaking, moaning his name.
His rhythm turns punishing, deep... unrelenting. Each stroke slams into the softest parts of me, dragging heat up my spine until my entire body hums with it. My breasts brush the wall with every thrust. The rough plaster scratches lightly at my skin, grounding me in the overwhelming sensation of being used and taken.
“Listen to you,” he growls behind me. “You love this.”
I can’t speak. I can barely think. All I can do is take it—his cock driving into me again and again, his breath hot at my neck, his fingers digging into my hips as if he’s trying to leave his mark on me forever.
His hand slides between my thighs again. He finds my clit, rubbing in tight, filthy circles as he keeps fucking me from behind. The tension that’s been coiling low in my belly snaps tight. I pant against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure builds, unbearable and perfect.
“I want to feel you come,” he snarls. “Right now. Make a mess all over my cock.”
My orgasm tears through me. My legs buckle. My body clenches around him, every nerve ending lit up in fire. I scream his name, nails scraping the wall for something—anything—to hold on to. He doesn’t stop. He drives into me through every wave, hips slamming against my ass, until he spills inside me with a savage groan.
He keeps moving, slower now but just as deep, grinding into me as his cock pulses inside me. My body jerks with each aftershock, overstimulated and raw, but I don’t tell him to stop. I don’t want him to. His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back until my cheek scrapes the wall. He licks the sweat from my neck, breathing hard, still buried in me.
“Messy fucking girl,” he mutters, biting down on my shoulder. “You needed that, didn’t you?”
I nod, too wrecked to speak. His other hand slips down and spreads me wider, keeping me open for him as he pulls out slowly. His cum spills out with the motion, dripping down my thighs. He watches it happen.
“Stay just like that,” he says, voice low. “I’m not done looking at you.”
Maksim turns me around, uses my fingers to wipe the sex from my thigh and then pushes them in my mouth, where Isuck him off me. When I'm done, he leads me through the living room, past the open kitchen, and down a dark hall into his bedroom.
He pulls me onto the bed and sheds his clothing, curling around me and saying nothing. His breathing evens out first, and within minutes, he's asleep. I listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs beneath my cheek. In sleep, his face loses its hard edges. He looks younger, almost vulnerable.
I wait until I'm sure he won't wake, then carefully extract myself from his arms. The apartment is dark and quiet as I pad barefoot down the hallway, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. The living room is still illuminated by the city lights streaming through the windows, my wedding gown still piled on the floor.
I step carefully over the crumpled material and make my way to his desk in the corner. The top is neat, organized—a few papers stacked in precise piles, a laptop closed and charging. I open the first drawer and find pens, paper clips, the usual office supplies. The second drawer is locked.
I try the laptop next, but it's password protected. His phone sits beside it, screen dark. I pick it up, my heart pounding. The screen lights up with a swipe, but it's also locked. I try his birthday, then mine, then random combinations. Nothing works.
The filing cabinet beside the desk is my next target. The top drawer slides open easily, revealing folders labeled with names I don't recognize. I flip through them quickly, scanning for anything related to Damir or the drugs. Most are business documents, contracts, financial records.
The bottom drawer sticks at first, then gives way with a soft click. Inside, I find a folder marked "Mirov, D." with today's date. My hands shake as I open it.
The first document is a photograph—Damir leaving an apartment building I don't recognize. The second is a surveillance report detailing his movements over the past month. The third makes my blood run cold.
It's an order. Three lines of text in Russian, stamped with an official seal. I have to read it twice before the words sink in.
"Damir Mirov. Termination authorized. Immediate execution upon location."
My brother is going to die. And Maksim—my husband—is the one who's going to kill him.
The next document is worse. A toxicology report stamped with the Ministry’s seal confirms the composition of the drug batch that killed Alexei. Fentanyl-laced ketamine, dosed far above the lethal threshold. I flip the page, expecting more lab data—but instead I find a series of printed surveillance stills.