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He smirks, his lips brushing against mine. “Beg for it.”
“P…ple..please, Zasha, l..let me come,” I almost sob with pleasure, my voice desperate.
He slams into me, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside me. I scream, my body convulsing, my walls clenching around him as I shatter once more. Zasha follows, his control snapping, his cock pulsing as he fills me with his seed.
He collapses on top of me, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding against mine. For a moment, we lie there, entangled, the only sound our labored breathing.
I shut my eyes, my thoughts racing while my body still tingles from our encounter. This was meant to be a fake marriage, yet tonight, it felt utterly real. As I slip into a worn-out sleep, an overwhelming feeling washes over me: the realization that something has changed, and I'm getting closer to truly making him mine.
The game has changed.
And I am ready to play.
16
Chapter 15
Zasha
Morning light cuts softly across the bedroom, golden and quiet, filtering through the sheer curtains she insisted we keep cracked open. The air is warm, still, laced with the scent of skin and silk and something faintly sweet — her perfume, maybe, or just her.
Mara is curled against my side, one leg tangled with mine, her breath brushing gently over my chest with every exhale.
She’s still asleep.
Peaceful.
Unaware of the chaos she’s stirring just by being here, pressed against me like she’s always belonged. My arm is wrapped around her waist, her body fitted perfectly against mine. And it’s that — the ease of it — that unsettles me the most.
I gaze at the ceiling for a few more seconds, listening to the gentle rhythm of her breathing and the steady thrum of my own heart as it struggles to remain calm.
She murmurs something in her sleep, the sound barely a whisper, and shifts slightly. Her fingers brush my ribs, and that slight, unconscious touch is all it takes to bring me back to my senses.
I slip out from under her slowly, careful not to wake her. I grab a pair of sweats and tug them on, shutting the door behind me with a click so soft I barely hear it myself.
The kitchen is still, empty, sterile, the way it used to feel before she started leaving half-drunk tea mugs on the counters and humming while she cooked.
I brew my coffee black, without sugar or milk. Just heat and bitterness. The burn feels good and familiar, like something I can control.
I stand at the window while it brews, arms crossed over my chest, muscles still aching slightly from everything that happened last night. I don’t regret touching her. Not even a little.
The way she came apart in my arms, the way her breath hitched when I kissed her throat, the way she said my name like it meant something — I’d give everything I own just to feel that again.
But now what?
What do I do with the morning after? I’m not the man who wakes up next to a woman like her and knows what to say in the morning. I don’t know how to offer softness without it coming off as rough.
I don’t know how to need someone. And God help me, I think I’m starting to need her.
The coffee finishes. I pour a cup and sit down at the table with my laptop, opening encrypted messages and flipping through dossiers as if none of this matters. There are reports of shipments, surveillance, and internal restructuring in a West Coast compartment. The same shit I’ve handled a thousand times before.
But my focus is shot. Every few minutes, my mind drifts to the way her eyes fluttered shut under my mouth. To how her voice cracked when she said she thought I didn’t want her. To the way she clung to me as if she truely wanted me.
I finish the coffee, but the taste sits wrong today. Looking out the window, I tell myself nothing’s changed. But everything has. And I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
17
Mara