33. Chapter 33

33

Wren

D 's lips crush against mine, hot and demanding. Fuck, it's like a dam breaking. All that tension, that simmering heat—it explodes.

Shit, I should not want him this much. But I do.

So, I pull him closer.

My fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. He groans, the sound vibrating through my chest. His hands, rough and calloused, slide under the shirt I'm wearing— his shirt. When they find bare skin where panties should be, he breaks the kiss, eyes dark and wild.

" Blyat ," he mutters, voice gravelly. "You trying to kill me, devushka ?"

I smirk, all bravado. "What's wrong, big guy? Can't handle a little surprise?"

His answering grin is pure sin. "Oh, I can handle you just fine."

He dives back in, but this time it's different. Slower. His lips move against mine with a deliberate intensity that makes my toes curl. His tongue traces the seam of my mouth, seeking entry. I grant it, meeting him stroke for stroke.

Fuck, he tastes good. Like the meal we just shared, like smoke and whiskey and something indefinably male. I find myself chasing that taste, wanting more.

The pot on the stove bubbles over, hissing as it hits the burner. Neither of us moves to turn it off.

D's hands roam my body, leaving trails of heat in their wake. One palm cups my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping me.

"Like that, da? " he murmurs against my lips. "Want more?"

I nip at his lower lip in response. "Less talking, more action, old man."

He chuckles, the sound dark and promising. "As you wish."

His mouth leaves mine, trailing along my jaw. When he reaches my neck, he pauses, breath hot against my pulse point. Then he sucks, hard enough to mark.

D's hands tighten on my hips, a groan rumbling through his chest. "Wren," he breathes, my name a warning and a plea.

I widen my legs and welcome his hand as he slides up my thigh, teasing the sensitive crease where my thigh meets my hip. My breath hitches as his fingers travel higher, grazing the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs. With a groan, he slips his hand between my legs, cupping my soaked pussy and rubbing my clit with slow, deliberate strokes.

"Fuck, you're drenched."

I roll my hips, grinning wickedly. "You gonna do something about it, big guy?"

His eyes flash, dark with hunger. Challenge accepted.

He slips two fingers inside me, curling them just right. A moan escapes me before I can bite it back. D's smirk is triumphant, the bastard.

Fine. Two can play that game.

I lean in, lips brushing his ear. "That all you got?"

Before he can respond, I latch onto his neck, sucking hard. Marking him. Mine.

D's fingers falter for a second, a strangled groan tearing from his throat. Then he redoubles his efforts, thumb circling my clit with maddening precision.

This feels insanely good.

We're locked in a battle now, each trying to make the other break first. His fingers work magic inside me, building a pressure that threatens to snap at any moment. But I refuse to give in, focusing instead on the patch of skin I'm determined to turn purple.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My body's betraying me, clenching around his fingers like it's trying to pull him deeper. The wet sounds of his movements are obscene in the quiet kitchen. I bite down harder on his neck, desperate to muffle the moans threatening to escape.

No way am I letting this smug bastard win. No fucking way.

But goddamn, those fingers. Strong and relentless, working me so perfectly. He's found a spot that makes my vision blur, and he's exploiting it mercilessly.

My hips betray me, grinding down hard onto his hand. I'm close. So fucking close.

I release his skin with a wet pop, my willpower finally snapping. "Fuck!" I cry out, my body arching into his touch.

D lifts his head from my neck, and I catch a glimpse of his face. The bastard looks entirely too pleased with himself.

"That's it, kotyonok ," he rumbles, his voice like gravel. "Let go. Let me hear you."

Before I can tell him where to shove his smugness, a hissing sound cuts through the air. The soup in the pot is boiling over, threatening to douse the burner.

D releases me, turning quickly to switch off the stove. The sudden loss of contact leaves me trembling, teetering on the edge of release.

What the fuck!

Fuck . I'm so close, my body humming with need. I grip the edge of the counter as I try to steady myself. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps.

D turns back to me, his eyes dark and hungry. But instead of returning to finish what he started, he brings his fingers to his mouth. My eyes widen as he licks them clean, savoring my taste like it's the best damn thing he's ever had.

"Delicious," he murmurs, and I swear my heart stops for a second.

Then, just like that, his expression shifts. The hunger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now he's all business. As if we weren't just about to fuck on his kitchen counter.

I watch, jaw clenched, as he casually grabs two bowls from a nearby cupboard. My gaze follows his every movement, tracing the lines of his back muscles, lingering on the purple mark I left on his neck. Proof that this wasn't just some fever dream.

D ladles the soup into the bowls, the rich aroma filling the air. It should make my mouth water, but all I can think about is the throbbing between my legs.

He sets the bowls on the table, then pulls out a chair and sits down. His eyes meet mine, one eyebrow arching in challenge.

"What's the matter?" he asks, voice infuriatingly calm. "Come sit down and eat your food."

I grit my teeth, fingers flexing against the counter. Part of me wants to storm out, to tell him to go fuck himself. But a bigger part… a bigger part wants to march over there, straddle his lap, and finish what we started.

Instead, I force myself to take a deep breath.

I push off the counter, taking my sweet time as I saunter over to the table. D's shirt rides up my thighs, exposing my curvy ass, and I know he's getting an eyeful. Good.

I slide into the chair across from him, crossing my legs slowly. His eyes follow the movement, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

Not so unaffected after all, are you, big guy?

"Something wrong?" I ask innocently, mirroring his earlier question. "You look a little… tense."

D's eyes narrow, but there's a glimmer of amusement there, too. "Eat your soup, Wren," he says, voice low and commanding. "Before it gets cold."

I pick up my spoon, maintaining eye contact as I bring it to my lips. The soup is rich and flavorful, but right now, it could be dishwater for all I care.

The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken tension. I shift in my seat, hyper-aware of every point of contact between my skin and the chair. Fuck, I'm still so wound up.

"So," I say, desperate to break the silence before I do something stupid, "how'd a big, bad mobster like you end up playing house in the middle of nowhere?"

D's eyes flick up to meet mine, a hint of surprise in their depths. "Curious about me, kotyonok? "

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Just making conversation."

He takes another spoonful of soup, considering. "It's… complicated."

"Yeah?" I lean forward, genuinely intrigued despite myself. "Try me."

D's quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost thoughtful. "Sometimes, even monsters need a break from the darkness."

The words leave me unsettled. Because fuck, I get it. I get it more than I want to admit.

I open my mouth, not sure what I'm going to say, when D suddenly lets out an enormous belch.

For a second, I just stare at him, slack-jawed. Then I burst out laughing.

"Well, that's sexy," I snort, scooping another spoonful of soup into my mouth.

D rolls his eyes at me, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up in a way that's irritatingly attractive. Then, like the barbarian he is, he picks up his bowl and downs the rest of his soup in one long gulp.

"Didn't peg you for a toy car enthusiast," I say, nodding toward the shelf lined with matchbox cars.

D follows my gaze, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "They're not mine. They're Luka's."

"Luka, as in Sophia's husband, the big boss, right?"

He nods, a far-off look in his eyes. "When I first came to America, I was already a teenager. Luka was just a kid. He had a whole collection of these. We used to play with them for hours."

I try to picture it: a younger D, fresh off the boat, playing with toy cars. It's hard to reconcile with the dangerous man sitting across from me.

"So, you keep them?" I press, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't take you for the sentimental type."

D chokes on his water, coughing for a moment before he composes himself. "It's more than just… toys," he says gruffly. "These were the first things anyone ever gave me just because. No strings attached. First time in my life someone actually gave a shit about me."

The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I swallow hard, unsure how to respond.

"The Pakhan … he rescued me from the camp," D continues, his voice low. "Brought me to America. Gave me a new life."

" Lucky you," I snort before I can stop myself.

D's eyes snap to mine, suddenly cold. "Lucky?" he growls. "The Pakhan gave me purpose. A family."

"Yeah, a family that uses you as their attack dog," I shoot back, the words tumbling out before I can think better of it.

Fuck. Shit. Great job, Wren. You and your fucking mouth.

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. D's expression hardens, his eyes turning to flint. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he snarls.

"Sure," I drawl, unable to stop myself. "Because chosen family is so much better when they train you to kill, right?"

I'm such a fucking bitch.

Apologize.

No.

Just say sorry, you idiot.

Fuck that.

I grab my glass, taking a long swig of water to shut myself up. Across the table, D's gone still. Too still. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking. His fingers wrap around his glass, knuckles white. For a second, I think he might shatter it. Or my skull.

His chest rises and falls with sharp, controlled breaths. Eyes locked on mine, dark and dangerous. Like he's deciding what to do with me.

Then suddenly, D pushes back from the table. His chair scrapes against the floor, the sound harsh in the tense silence. Without a word, he grabs the clothes he'd discarded nearby, yanking them on with jerky movements.

I watch him, my heart pounding. I've royally fucked this up, haven't I? Whatever… thing… was happening between us, I've just killed it dead.

D stalks to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He turns back, his eyes cold and distant. "I'll make sure you can leave by tomorrow," he says, voice flat.

The door slams behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden silence. The soup in front of me has gone cold, forgotten.

I stare at the closed door. My chest feels hollow. Empty.

Why do I feel like I've just lost something I never even had?