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"Anastasia," he warns, voice strained. "If you keep that up, this will be over before it begins."

I smile, empowered by his reaction. "Then perhaps you should do something about it."

The challenge ignites something primal in his eyes. He settles between my thighs. The blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance, teasing, testing.

"Look at me," he commands softly.

I obey, meeting his silver gaze as he pushes forward slowly, stretching me around his considerable girth. The initial discomfort gives way to a burning fullness that borders on pain yet carries its own exquisite pleasure. My body yields to him inch by inch until he's fully seated within me, our bodies as connected as physically possible.

"Fuck," he breathes, muscles trembling with the effort of remaining still. "You're so tight. So perfect."

I adjust to the invasion, the sensation of completeness so overwhelming that tears spring to my eyes—not from pain but from the sudden, shocking realization that I've never felt so fully present, so utterly alive, so completely myself as in this moment with this dangerous man.

He begins to move, slow, measured thrusts that gradually increase in tempo and force. His eyes never leave mine, watching every flicker of expression, reading my responses with the same attention to detail he likely brings to every aspect of his dangerous life.

"More," I gasp, nails scoring his back as pleasure builds within me, coiling tighter with each thrust. "Harder."

Something snaps in his control. He hooks my legs over his arms, changing the angle to drive deeper, hitting spots that send shocks of pleasure radiating through my core. The sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the room, punctuated by our ragged breathing and broken moans.

"You're mine now," he growls against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Say it."

"Yours," I gasp as he slams into me, the possession in his voice triggering something primal within me. "I'm yours, Viktor."

His hand slips between us, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, Anastasia. Let me feel you."

The command, the pleasure, the overwhelming sensation of being completely possessed breaks something open inside me. My release crashes through me like a tidal wave, muscles clenching around his length as I cry out his name, vision sparking white at the edges.

"Anastasia," he breathes against my neck, my name a prayer or perhaps a curse as my climax triggers his own. He drives into me one final time, body shuddering as he finds his release, his face vulnerable in a way I suspect few have ever witnessed.

The last barriers between us dissolve, replaced by something primal and honest that requires no words, no calculation, no strategy—just the ancient rhythm of bodies finding completion in shared surrender.

Afterward, as moonlight filters through parting storm clouds to pattern the bedroom with silver light, we lie tangled together in the soft sheets. His fingers trace idle patterns along my spine while mine explore the topography of scars across his chest.

"You'll have to tell me the rest of these stories," I murmur, pressing my lips to a faded mark near his collarbone.

"There are too many." His voice carries the languid satisfaction of spent passion. "Some worth telling, others best forgotten."

"I want to know them all." The admission reveals more than intended—a desire for permanence, for connection beyond this stolen Paris night.

He shifts slightly, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "What happens when you return to Moscow, Anastasia? To your father's plans?"

Reality intrudes like a cold draft, unwelcome but impossible to ignore. "I don't know. I've never... done anything like this before."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps pleasure at the admission. "Never taken a lover of your own choosing?"

I shake my head, suddenly self-conscious. "My father's security makes such independence challenging. And the risks of scandal..."

"Yet here you are." His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip. "Making your own choices."

"For tonight." I can't keep the edge of bitterness from my voice. "Tomorrow reality returns."

"In our world, security is often just an illusion," he says, his voice taking on a contemplative tone. "The Bratva operates on perception as much as actual power. Your father understands this better than most."

"Is that analysis of my father's operation personal or professional?" I ask, studying his face in the dim light.

His expression reveals nothing. "Both. Moscow's power structure has shifted significantly in recent years. The old territorial divisions no longer hold. Three major factions now control nearly eighty percent of operations across Europe."

"My father's, Petrov's, and..." I pause, letting the question hang.