by Lana Sky
Our eyes meet. Lips again. Panting, I tug at his shirt. His pants. The second his cock is free, I rock my hips, and he enters me. It’s fire. Gasoline meeting a lit stick of dynamite.
He feels so good. Too good—despite there being no pain to feed off of. No nipping nails. No bitten flesh. Just him, slamming inside me in a ruthless rhythm. Like he’s too drunk off the feeling to crave the violence.
His fingers, slick with ice cream, paint a trail up and down my hips, grazing my nipples, heightening every sensation. Marking me.
Maybe it’s the heat or the sweat, but I’ve never been so wet. He’s never felt harder. Deeper. We move in sync, my body gripping him in desperate, grasping convulsions. And yet at the same time, there’s a rightness to it. A knowledge deep within that every quivering, yearning inch of flesh belongs to him.
I’m offering it to him.
And his answer lurks within the way his release floods me in waves of scorching fire.
He’ll take it all.
Chapter Nine
“I may become a fan of vanilla yet,” Maxim murmurs against my throat, his fingers entangled in my hair. “Admittedly plain, but…” His lips ignite a fiery path up to my ear, down my jaw, and finally, claim my mouth. “Satisfying,” he says, pulling back as my lips burn in the aftermath of his kiss.
“Where are we?” I eye a mass of pink sequins dangling from a hook above my head. An unusual design choice in his world.
“On a private island in the Caribbean.”
“Oh.” I ferret away that bit of information for later. “But, I mean, now?” I gesture to the view before us—a deconstructed clown costume piled against the opposite wall.
“A staff lounge,” Maxim explains absently. “Something about occupational code. Lucius insisted I needed one for the workers, even for a day.”
Which reminds me of the insanity that is this morning. “I can’t believe you did this—”
“Can’t believe?” He lifts me and spins me around, placing me on a flat surface that creaks against our combined weight. A table? I’m too distracted to be sure. His eyes track a white bead of liquid dripping down my chest, and he lunges for it, laving a path with his tongue.
“Still so doubtful of my limits. Though, I do believe I am a new fan of ice cream. A rare admission,” he confesses against my navel. Before I can recover, he crouches down between my legs, wrenching them apart. My cheeks catch fire at the way he eyes me. Like someone starving. Depraved.
I arch my back, craving the act he promises with a pointed flick of his tongue against his lower lip.
But then I hear it. Voices, calling out desperately. For me.
“Frankie? Where did you go?”
“Shit.” I lurch upright, and Maxim returns to his full height, blocking me in.
“Relax.” He grabs my arm before I can race for the door. “Listen. They aren’t in danger.”
He’s right. The kids call playfully, but they seem close. Too close. Right when I’m sure they’ll barge into the shed, their voices fade, sounding further away.
“An hour’s absence,” Maxim says. It’s only when I notice the thoughtful tilt to his head that I recognize the statement as a proposal. “They will not miss you for that long. They have diversions…”
And even Ainsley can survive for an hour without me in a private, personal carnival.
Could the possessive master be asking for permission?
My heart skips at the possibility. Finally, I trace my lower lip with the tip of my tongue as my gaze meets his. “An hour,” I concede.
His eyes flash as he stoops and fishes something from the floor. His shirt. Unfurling it, he coaxes my trembling, languid limbs into the sleeves. Then he redons his pants, and we creep to the door of the shed.
Maxim peeks out first. After a few seconds, he inclines his head for me to follow, and we cut across the terrace for the house at breakneck speed. I don’t think it dawns on me until we finally pry open the French doors and slip into the air-conditioned sanctuary what we’re doing—sneaking around like horny teenagers desperate for a minute alone. That is, if I had ever been a normal horny teenager who did normal teenage shit.
I doubt he was either.
Still, I can see the appeal of it as Maxim takes my hand and pulls me across the living room and up the stairs. In the absence of his shirt, his muscles ripple with his every movement, devoid of tension for once as he heads in a direction different from that of Ainsley’s room—and the other kids’ for that matter.
Conveniently out of earshot of the rest of the house, this hallway leads into a semi-private wing. A single door opens onto a space that I presume, given its size, to be the master suite.
It’s large enough to fit at least ten more beds, apart from the massive one dominating the center of it. Floor-to-ceiling windows display an intimate view of the surrounding landscape, and a clean, simplistic color scheme fits in perfectly with Maxim’s taste.
Black, black, and more black.
Sliding glass doors open onto a secluded balcony containing only a lounge area shaped like a bed, covered in a delicate canopy.
That refuge isn’t his intended hiding place, however. On the edge of the suite—coincidentally facing a view of the beach the other rooms only hint at—is a bathroom fit for a mafia prince. Ebony marble reinforces his unique tastes, combined with golden fixtures and a huge sunken bath designed to have an uninterrupted view of the ocean.
I’m so entranced by the sight, I barely notice as thick fingers gently remove his shirt from me, tossing it aside. Naked, I’m at the mercy of his scrutiny. Maxim’s breath scorches my overheated flesh, growing harsher the more of me he inhales. Starting at my neck, he skims the width of my shoulders and then back again. Despite our self-imposed deadline, he takes his time, and my thoughts dissipate with every passing second.
Eventually, he manages to get the water running and eases me into the basin of the tub. He sits at the edge, and I settle between his legs, aware of the parts of his body he doesn’t bother to disguise for once. His binder which chafes against my back. His bare legs positioned on either side of me, riddled with scars. His cock, hardening already, straining against my hip. I’m a glutton for this moment, hoarding as much of him as I can steal beneath the tips of my fingers. They skim him greedily, unrestrained for once.
God, he’s a creature formed of beauty…
And brutality.
My heart lurches the more of him I explore—awed and terrified at the same time. I tentatively trace a stretch of his inner thigh, emboldened when he growls in appreciation. But then my fingers catch a gnarled, near-invisible scar, and I recoil. It’s so jagged, betraying a long, agonizing healing. God, I can’t even begin to guess what could have made it. Something painful. So painful…
“A whip,” he explains as if reading my mind. His fingers find mine and force me to touch the scar again. It’s as if my curiosity enthralls him almost as much as it consumes me. “Anatoli,” he adds. “He liked to embed metal in the tip. That time, I served him a meal without showing the proper respect—I didn’t kneel deeply enough.”
He sounds so cold. Like someone telling a normal, boring anecdote from his childhood. Not a snippet of horrific, traumatic abuse.
“This upsets you,” he deduces, fingering my fluttering pulse. “I will spare you any further—”
“No!” I grasp him in return and tilt his hand, revealing the calloused palm. It’s as brutalized as the rest of him—a map of a million unknown injuries. “I want to know.”
A deep sound rumbles from his throat as if questioning. Oh? I sneak a glance at his face, surprised to find him watching me, an eyebrow raised in confusion. Could that be why he’s so fucking secretive? Not because he’s trying to hide his past, but because he can’t fathom the idea of someone wanting to know about it. About him.
“I want to know everything about you.” I hate how it sounds when uttered out loud. So desperate and pathetic. But he doesn’t scoff or hiss in annoyance. Taki
ng a risk, I finger a scar slicing across his palm and propose my first request, “Tell me what caused this one.”
“A blade, I think.” The rising water around us sloshes as he shrugs. He’s skeptical of this game of show and tell, but still willing to play along. For now. “He made me train with them. It is easy to cut yourself if you aren’t careful.”
“What about this one?” I finger a crescent-shaped mark across his knuckles.
“Glass,” he says without elaborating.
“And this one?” I turn to face him and place my hand over the center of his chest.
He sighs. “That one… Some of them I don’t remember the cause of.” His eyes darken, revealing his surprise at that fact. I wonder if he’s ever stopped to tally up his marks before.
Or those inflicted by him.
Another question worms into my mind, and I don’t bother swallowing it down. “How did Vadim get his scar?” I’m not brave enough to meet his gaze, but his fingers find my jaw and lift it anyway.
Anger isn’t what colors his expression for once as far as that name is concerned. Just exhaustion. “Vadim?” The lines around his mouth strain, more pronounced than ever. He looks so worn. So tired. So alien from everything I know about the depth of human emotions and how normal people express them. He’s more wolf than ever.
“Forget it,” I croak. “You don’t have to—”
“I tried to cut his throat.” He lets me go and hones his gaze on the window.
“Why?” I whisper.
“We were children. I had a knife. I won’t lie to you—” He snatches my hand, pressing it to the side of his face as if forcing me to feel the truth in every uttered word. “I wanted to kill him. It was only due to my inexperience that I didn’t. Why? Because he stood in my way.” His tone chills me to the core, despite the steam wafting from the water. “He was an obstacle since birth. A potential replacement always compared to me. Always. By our father. By Anatoli. If I slacked for even a second, Vadim’s name was on their lips. In some ways, they preferred him. He was smarter. More cunning. Charming in his own way. But when it came to a direct challenge, he always lacked the strength.” He bares his teeth in a feral snarl, still trapped in that competitive cycle—even if it leaves him fighting against a memory. “Only one of us would be deemed worthy of carrying the Koslov name. I couldn’t fail, not even for him. I refused to…”
He blinks as if forgetting where he is. Then his eyes fixate on me, and some of the tension constricting them eases.
“My entire life, I have fought for this.” He nods as if to indicate his entire being. His identity. “I’ve won—” He grips my chin in return, inspecting my expression. Whatever he finds, makes him recoil in disgust. “And yet, you are the only person in the world to ever look at me as you do. With pity.”
“It’s not pity.” I lunge for him before he can push me away. Trembling, my lips brush his chest, sensing the heart racing within. His taste is a world apart from melting ice cream. Dangerous. Enticing. Addicting. Alarming. And I lick my lips to savor every drop. “I do not pity you—”
“So what is it then?” he gruffly demands. “Disgust?”
“I… I feel for you,” I find the space above his heart with my fingers—coincidentally where one of his worst scars is. He goes rigid every time I graze the ropey, uneven flesh. Regardless, I can’t stop touching him. “I know what it feels like…”
To fight.
To sacrifice.
To suppress.
“Oh?” He laughs. “You know what it’s like to stab your own fucking ‘sibling’? I respect your intent, Francesca—” His use of my name stings, anything but an endearment. “But, I strongly suggest you avoid comparing yourself to me in this instance.”
“I know what it’s like to lie to yourself,” I insist, ignoring the warning in his tone. “To crave an escape. You wanted to destroy your brother. I… I wanted to destroy myself.”
Suddenly, he captures my wrist and extends it for his inspection. Something, in particular, draws his interest, making him stiffen, a curse on his lips. It’s a nasty scratch, stretching the width of my forearm, still weeping fresh beads of blood. “Do not tell me that what happened with Vadim caused this…”
I frown at the sudden seriousness of his tone. “No.” But it’s not like a fresh wound is an unusual occurrence between us. Then it hits me—he thinks I did it to myself.
“These have lessened,” he points out as if reading my mind again. His thumb travels down my arm, grazing over countless healed scars and weeks-old scabs. “Since you’ve been with me. Did you think I didn’t notice them?”
I wrack my brain, surprised that he might be right. Apart from a few nicks from my nails, I haven’t hurt myself the way I used to. Not with a knife or razor. Not with my teeth.
“You enjoy pain,” he says carefully. “But it wasn’t until I noticed these—” he fingers another old injury of mine. “That I understood why. You crave the release of it.”
“And what do you get out of it?” I counter, though I think I’ve finally deciphered the real answer on my own.
His mouth twitches, part grimace, part frown. “Pleasure.”
A lie.
I can put the pieces together, even if the picture they make terrifies the shit out of me. One example comes to mind.
“You made me kneel for you.” I brush my free hand along his forearm, sensing the power lurking beneath the healed, scarred flesh. “When you whipped me. You made me kneel. Like your grandfather made you—”
“Don’t. Please.” He shakes his head, his teeth gritted. He’s quiet for a moment. “I do not take for granted what you give to me. What no one else could, you do—” he returns his attention to the scratch. “But I don’t want you seeking control out of fear.”
“I didn’t hurt myself,” I admit. “Ainsley scratched me by accident. She’s afraid.”
“I know.” He shifts, stiffening against me. “I will do everything in my power to prevent what happened from happening again.”
“But you can’t, can you?”
He doesn’t respond.
“She’s a little girl.” My voice breaks. “She doesn’t deserve to grow up afraid.”
“I can make her happy,” he counters. “Happier than today—all of them. I can keep you content. You can keep me sane.”
“Is that what you really want?” It sounds like yet another way of phrasing the give and take of our entire relationship.
“I want understanding with you,” he corrects. “No more mincing words. I want you on my side.”
“As a partner?”
“Or a lover.”
My cheeks burn at the raw heat in his tone. “You don’t normally talk like this.”
He returns his gaze to the view, eyeing it blankly, unimpressed. “You weren’t listening before. Maybe this language will convince you?”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“At night, you give me what I need. And by day…” His eyes rove slowly to my face. “I give you what you want.”
And what is that?
He doesn’t say, but a few options come to mind. A Maxim who talks. An open Maxim. And unfiltered Maxim.
An unrestrained Maxim.
“What are you thinking?” His thumb slips beneath my chin, lifting it. So rich and deep, his eyes seem to stare right through me, impossible to escape.
“I’m wondering…how you’ll indulge without traumatizing my family if we’re all staying in the same house.” Mikie’s right. He’s no idiot.
“Is that all?” Maxim’s mouth quirks, and it’s like the world fucking falters. “I have two methods in mind that should work in tandem.”
Something warns me not to ask what they are. Not yet.
“But as for today?” He reaches out, grasping my hand. Raising it to his mouth, he brushes his lips along my knuckles, inhaling deeply all the while. “I will do nothing to alarm your family. You can trust me on that.”
And I think I can.
At least for now.
Chapter Ten
The house itself turns out to be far more incredible than I initially realized. The open floor plan is centered around a breathtaking view of the square-shaped pool and the ocean beyond it. Wide, open windows allow in a sea-salt tinged breeze that displaces some of the heat, making the air feel more comfortable than the most intense air-conditioning.
There aren’t many rooms in total either. The girls share a spacious suite in one wing while the boys share another. I’m struck by the careful planning of the layout as Maxim leads me on this impromptu tour, his hair still dripping wet. Our only detour is a trip to the closet of the master bedroom, where he changes into another linen shirt and plain slacks. There I discover an array of women’s clothing hanging alongside his, conveniently coordinated to match. I slip into a loose-fitting white sundress and make a mental note to explore the rest of my wardrobe later.
“It’s a fairly new acquisition,” Maxim explains as we follow a wide hallway next, accented by windows that look out onto the terrace. From here, I can see the kids, clamoring to ride the carousel. “Even I have yet to explore it fully. Though there are a few…necessities that I insisted upon before closing.”
Necessities? I decide to overlook voicing such a loaded question in favor of something far more harmless. “Where is my room?”
“Where? You’ve seen it.” He gestures in the direction of his master suite. Our master suite, apparently.
“Oh. But when I was with Ainsley, you said…” A sudden realization chokes me off. He suggested I sleep with her in ‘my room’—which really meant he would forfeit his own bed entirely.
“Come.” I look over to find him inclining his head. “There is one final feature I want to show you.”
I follow him warily into the suite. This time, he approaches a door opposite the bathroom, near the bed. Another closet?
“Open it,” Maxim says without explanation. “My one request before I would commit to buying the property...”
The grim commentary comes as I reach for the curved, metal handle. I tug, but rather than open automatically, I sense a slight give, and my ears pick up a mechanical sound before the door finally comes loose.
