“I’m coming… oh God, I’m coming!”
“That’s it. Let go for me.”
She shatters with a scream, and the way she convulses around me drags me over with her, my vision going white as my release tears free.
“Katya,” I groan, spilling deep inside her.
We stay locked together, gasping, with sweat slicking our skin. Katya drops her head on my shoulder, and I feel her pulse hammering against my lips as I kiss her throat.
When I finally lower her, her legs won’t hold her. She clings to my shoulders, trembling, and it makes my cock twitch all over again.
“That was…” she whispers.
“Incredible,” I finish for her.
Her eyes search mine. “Are you okay?”
“Better than okay. You’re fucking perfect.”
I hold her close, still buried in the heat of her body, and the truth hits me like a bullet: I’ve orchestrated my downfall.
Alexandra Volkova will be my ruin. And the worst part is, I don’t give a damn.
13
Katya
Three days later, my skin is still tingling from Dmitri’s hands. That’s not the healthiest mindset to bring into my first therapy session.
Dr. Sokolova arranges her notes on the coffee table, her every movement precise and practiced. Different suit today—navy instead of charcoal—but the same stiff, overly controlled vibe I remember from our first meeting.
“How are you feeling about beginning this process?” she asks, her pen clicking open.
“Like I’m about to be dissected.” I sink back into Dmitri’s leather chair, aware of how her eyes follow every move I make. “But I guess that’s the point, isn’t it?”
She makes a note on her pad. “Therapy isn’t about dissection; it’s about reconstruction. Tell me about your week since we last spoke. Any significant developments in your emotional or physical state?”
The honest answer involves multiple orgasms against a wall, but I doubt that’s what she’s fishing for. “My husband and I have grown closer.”
“Oh? How so?”
“The usual way married couples do.” I arch a brow. “Unless you want details about our sex life?”
Dr. Sokolova blushes, and I swear she frowns before she catches herself. “Of course not, but Iaminterested in whether physical intimacy triggered any emotional memories or responses that felt familiar.”
“Everything with Dmitri feels familiar and wrong at the same time.” I sigh. “Like my body remembers him even when my brain refuses to.”
She scribbles something that, from my vantage point, looks more like symbols than words.
“That’s common with suppressed memories. The physical often returns before the cognitive.”
“So, my body’s ahead of my brain. Story of my life.”
Her pen stills, and she looks up. “That’s one way to see it, but I’m more interested in what you’ve seen. Have your dreams changed since we last spoke?”
“They have. Violence, mostly. But not chaos. It’s controlled and not random. Like my body knows what to do, even when I don’t.”
“It’s common for trauma victims to dream in patterns that feel like training.”
