Page 202 of Celestial Combat

I was shaking. Bent over, dripping, taking him as deep as I could, while he teased my body like he knew it better than I did. And maybe he did.

He pulled back just enough for me to catch my breath, his cock slick with spit, resting against my lips.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing my hair off my face, his fingers still rubbing slow and devastating between my legs. “Bent over, mouth full, begging without a single word.”

I whimpered, thighs trembling.

Then he pushed his cock back into my mouth and said, voice dark and delicious, “Don’t stop until you come.”

I was right on the edge – thighs trembling, knees threatening to give out, mouth stretched around his cock while his fingers worked my clit and g-spot with ruthless precision. I moaned around him, helpless to stop it, the pleasure building fast and hot behind my ribs.

I gasped around him, the vibration setting him off, and with a low grunt, he pulled on my hair and thrust deep one more time. His cock twitched in my mouth, and I kept moaning and sucking as he spilled onto my tongue, hot and thick. At thesame time, his fingers pushed harder against my clit – circling, pressing – until I shattered.

My body clenched, legs locking as I came hard, my moan muffled around his cock. The orgasm rushed over me in waves, and I barely noticed the moment he slid his fingers out – until his palm landed hard between my legs.

I jolted, a cry tearing from my throat around him.

The sting was sharp, wet, and dirty in all the right ways.

He pulled his cock from my mouth with a low hiss and grabbed a fistful of my hair, tugging hard enough to make my spine snap straight.

I stood shakily, still dazed from the high, his grip on my hair guiding me until I was face-to-face with him, the water rushing between us, heavy and hot.

The hand he’d just had inside me – wet with my slick and his cum – slid down and around to grab a handful of my ass, pulling me in hard against him. My hips met his, bodies flush, his breathing ragged.

Then his other hand – still tangled in my hair – let go, only to drag down my face. His fingers traced my lips, my chin, down the curve of my jaw, smearing his cum off my skin with slow, almost tender pressure.

“You look perfect like this,” he muttered, voice dark with satisfaction.

I barely had time to breathe before he gripped my jaw, fingers digging in on both sides, and yanked me forward.

His mouth crashed into mine.

Rough. Hungry. Possessive. And I wanted more.

Chapter 51

Present

Siberia, Russia

I LED KALI DOWN THE narrow, gravel side-path, the train tracks overhead whispering the promise of departure. The bar was half-hidden among pines, its weathered wooden façade worn by wind and snow. A single lantern swayed outside, its dull glow pulling us in.

Inside, a thick haze of cigarette smoke curled under dim, mismatched lampshades. The floor was covered in sawdust, hay-crunch soft underfoot, and wolf pelts hung on the rough-hewn walls, their eyes blank in the low light. A battered jukebox crooned a melancholy folk song, someone’s old voice strained with memory. I tasted the scent of stale beer, warm vodka, and diesel – like time itself had gone quiet here.

Kali wore jeans and a heavy knit sweater – plain, nothing special. I kept the collar of my coat up, shoulders angled relaxed. I slipped into my role: the charming, slightly out-of-place foreigner in an old Russian tavern. Two loaded pistols pressed solid against our ribs.

We slipped into a booth in the back corner. Low bench, splintered wood table. Kali sat close, her posture taut – mymirror in tension and purpose. I ordered two vodkas, served neat in icy shot glasses. We clinked, then settled into silence, scanning the room.

It was the kind of place where everyone ignored everyone else – unless you were worth noticing. Hunters sat with shots and empty eyes. Old men with weathered faces scrubbed by vodka. A few criminals who might have been forgotten by everyone except each other.

And then I saw him.

He sat alone at a small table across the room, half-turned. Grey hair, lines of old battles etched across his cheeks. A mix of Russian and Japanese features. His hand shook slightly as he lifted a glass to his lips. I saw the faded Bratva tattoo curled around his wrist.

Aleksandr Ivanova.

Late sixties, maybe. Ex-Bratva Underboss who’d disappeared. The man we’d come to find.