It shouldn’t be hot—he’s using me solely for his pleasure—but something about being treated like a fuck doll sends pulses of heat directly to my clit. He’s taking what he wants from my body, and it’s both degrading and perversely liberating. There’s nothing complicated in this exchange; I please him simply by existing, by being nothing more than a warm, wet mouth for his use. My eyes scrunch shut, tears leaking out the sides as he picks up pace, forcing his big cock down my aching throat, yet the urge to gag remains quiescent, even as my mouth floods with enough saliva to fill a lake. It drips down my chin, my neck, my chest, but none of that matters because I can sense the tension building in his body, can feel his thick shaft swelling in my mouth even more. With a groan, he thrusts in so deep I lose the ability to breathe, and warm liquid spurts down my throat as his fingers clench tightly in my hair, tugging on the roots hard enough to make me wince.
By the time he pulls out of my throat, I’m so desperate for air my nails are digging frantically into his thighs. Yet when I open my watering eyes and look up to meet his gaze, I shiver with pleasure at the warm possessiveness reflected there.
“Zaychik…” His voice is a dark, velvety rasp as he hooks his hands under my arms and lifts me to my feet, then steadies me until I regain my balance. Holding my shoulder gently with one hand, he rinses the cum and saliva off me with the other, then cups my chin, staring down at me with a peculiarly intent expression.
My pulse kicks up anew, a strange premonition tightening my stomach as he says softly, “You are everything to me, the source of my greatest happiness and pleasure. I want you with me for the rest of our lives, for as long as breath remains in our bodies. Fate brought you to my door, delivered you to me like the gift you are, and I couldn’t be more grateful.”
My heart is now in my throat, my breath coming so fast my vision is going gray. This can’t possibly be heading where I think it’s heading. There’s no way he’s—
“Chloe Emmons…” He frames my face with his broad palms, his tiger eyes filled with a fiercely tender light. “I want you to marry me. I want you to be my wife.”
25
Chloe
For a moment, I’m convinced I misheard him. Because there’s no way he’s proposing, not when we’ve known each other less than a month. Except there’s no mistaking the intensity in his hypnotic stare, no hiding from the fact that he’s just used the words “marry” and “wife.”
My mind spins frantically as I clasp his powerful wrists, instinctively tugging his hands down from my face. The shower behind him is still running, filling the spacious stall with steam, but I’m all of a sudden freezing, goosebumps rippling over my wet skin.
“Nikolai, I…” I have no idea what to say, how to approach something so insane. Finally, I blurt, “You’re joking, right?”
His gaze darkens. “Why would I joke about this?”
“Because… because we hardly know each other!”
He lays his hands on my shoulders and squeezes lightly, his tone remaining soft even as his jaw hardens dangerously. “I know everything I need to know about you.”
“Well, I don’t. Know about you, I mean.” I back out of his hold and wipe a shaking hand over my face to rid it of the water droplets. My heart hammers unevenly, my stomach knotting at his rapidly darkening expression as I grope for the shower stall door. “Nikolai, please, don’t get me wrong—I’m super flattered. It’s just… this isn’t a good idea right now.” Or ever.
I may have fallen for this lethally gorgeous man, but I haven’t forgotten who and what he is—or what he’s about to do for me.
I’m not cut out to be a mafia wife, even if that’s not the formal label.
He watches my retreat with narrowed eyes, steam billowing in the air behind his powerful body, and it’s all I can do not to trip over the bathroom mat as I step out and grab a towel.
There’s no need for me to be so freaked out.
He asked and I refused.
End of story.
“What do you need to know about me?” He steps out after me, his movements soft and deliberate. A predator following his prey. “What will it take for you to say yes?”
“Well…” I wrap the towel around myself, frantically searching for the least offensive answer. There isn’t one, so I’m forced to opt for the truth. “Nikolai, I just can’t marry you. We’re too different. Our values, the way we approach things… The truth is, I don’t think—” My heart jumps at the storm gathering in his eyes, but I’m committed, so I plow ahead. “I don’t think this can work long term.”