Page 10

Chapter 10

A Seat at the Edge of Ruin

Galina

I pause at his words.

“Sit on my lap, lisichka .”

The command lingers in the air like smoke—low, steady, unmistakably deliberate. No sharpness. No urgency. Just an iron thread wrapped in velvet, humming with power.

He pats his thigh once, a gesture so restrained it’s almost cruel. Like he knows I’ll come. Like he’s already counted on it.

My breath catches, caught between the urge to move and the burn of defiance crawling up my spine. My bare feet press into the hardwood, grounded and trembling all at once. He watches me from that leather throne like a king awaiting tribute, his expression carved from restraint, his eyes anything but.

He’s daring me. Testing my edges.

But so am I.

“Does sitting on your lap qualify as ‘no touching’?” I ask, voice smooth as glass, laced with barbs. I raise a brow, letting the smirk curl at the edge of my lips.

His chuckle is low, sliding from his throat with a predator’s patience. “That depends,” he says, the words slithering through the space between us, thick with heat. “Are you sitting as a performer…or a business partner?”

Business partner.

So that’s the game now.

I take my time—not because I’m hesitant, but because I want him to feel every second of it. His eyes follow. His jaw flexes. His hands curl tighter around the armrests like he’s resisting the instinct to reach for me and shatter every inch of control he’s built.

Good.

I stop just short of him, close enough that the scent of his cologne hits—dark and clean and painfully familiar. “Business partner,” I echo, low and lazy, my fingers grazing the back of the chair as I lean in, lips hovering near his temple. “But we both know there’s nothing clean about our business, Vasiliy.”

“Nothing clean,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to my mouth. “Nothing simple.”

Carefully, I lower myself onto his lap.

It’s not a collapse. It’s not a surrender. It’s a statement.

I position myself with precision—knees angled just enough to keep us from fully touching, but close enough that he can feel the heat pulsing from my skin. Every inch of space between us vibrates like wire pulled taut. My weight settles against his thighs, and his body tenses beneath me like a loaded gun.

He exhales slowly, like a man trying not to break open. “If there’s no touching,” he says, his voice velvet-wrapped steel, “how does this work?”

The danger is in the softness. In the way he’s barely holding on.

“That’s the point,” I say, resting my palms lightly on his shoulders. “They don’t get to touch. They can look. Crave. Ache. But they don’t get to take. Only the performers decide who gets more.”

He goes still under my touch, but the silence between us roars.

“Untouchable,” he repeats, tasting the word like it offends him. His knuckles pale where they grip the chair. “And what happens when someone decides they’re tired of boundaries? When frustration turns to demand?”

“Then they pay for the illusion of control,” I say, fingers curling slightly into his suit. “And the more they want? The more they give. Frustration isn’t a weakness, Vasiliy. It’s leverage. And leverage…is profit.”

He silently studies me. Eyes like razors, stripping me bare.

“You think you know what men want?” he says, low, lethal.

I lean in until my mouth is a breath from his ear, the heat between us a storm about to break. “I don’t think,” I whisper. “I know. Men want to believe they have power. And they’ll sell their souls to chase the one thing they’re not allowed to touch.”

His hands don’t move. But his body betrays him. Every muscle tightens beneath me. His breathing roughens. And for a moment—for one heartbeat—I feel him start to come undone.

I sit straighter. Smirk sharper.

And wait for the next move in our little war.

His breath hitches—a flicker, barely audible, but I catch it. The way his body coils tighter beneath mine, the quiet strain in his jaw as I ease back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“And this rule of no touching…” he murmurs, each word heavy as a loaded weapon. “Does it apply to everyone, Galina?”

My name on his tongue feels like a challenge, like a dare.

The question hangs in the air, thick with heat. I let the silence stretch, let it ache. Then I let a slow, lazy smile unfurl across my lips. “Everyone,” I say, soft but unyielding. “Even the boss.”

His laugh is low and lethal, sliding through me like smoke. “Is that so?” he murmurs, and this time when his hand moves, it’s slow and sure—fingers grazing the curve of my hip with a heat that shoots straight to my core. “Are you sure you’d want that, lisichka ?”

The way he says it—like a promise, like a warning—makes my pulse stutter.

“Absolutely,” I reply, steady, even as my breath begins to quicken. “Because if you cross the line, so will everyone else. And then the entire illusion falls apart. No exclusivity. No power. No profit.”

He doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me with those steel-gray eyes that could raze empires. Then, slowly, he leans back, letting his hand fall away from my hip. He exhales, long and sharp, like a man reining in a beast.

“You’re either brilliant,” he says, voice tight with restraint, “or suicidally reckless. I haven’t decided which.”

I tilt my head, pulse still roaring under my skin. “I’ll take both,” I say with a smirk. “Genius sells. Reckless entertains. Either way, the house wins.”

The air still crackles between us, all heat and challenge. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. Because the move is mine now.

And I’m not done.

I hold his gaze as I shift, slow and sinuous, sliding off his lap until I’m kneeling between his thighs. The hardwood is cool against my knees, but the heat radiating off his body scorches everything else.

My hands trail up his legs, until they press against the hardness straining beneath his slacks.

“But a performer,” I murmur, my voice silk-wrapped steel, “can touch…if she chooses to.”

His whole body goes still, frozen not by fear, but by the sheer, fraying edge of control.

And I smile, wicked and certain.

Checkmate .

He watches, jaw tight, but otherwise doesn’t interfere. Leaning in, I part my lips and trace the outline of his erection over his pants. And even though there’s enough fabric separating us, it’s far too intimate and dangerous.

“I will think about it,” Vasiliy growls, and I dart my eyes up, finding his gaze uncompromising, with no gentleness in them.

The thought chills me, setting my teeth on edge. “You do that.”

An indecent urge takes control of my muscles, and I pull down his zipper. His hands are gripping the arms of the chair, but he doesn’t touch me. There’s desperation coming through his ragged breaths, as if he can’t contain the desire for much longer.

Fishing out his cock, I hold him in my hand, looking up.

“Show me just how much you want me to think about this,” he growls. I slide my tongue down his shaft, then place my lips on his tip. At the first pump of his hips, he nearly drives it into my mouth. The velvety smoothness and delicious shudder that rocks his body is pure sin, and I can’t help the thrill that runs through me. Of all the plans I’ve formulated since arriving here, letting Vasiliy Volkov take me the way he wants wasn’t part of the bargain. And yet, here I am, flushed and needy as his knuckles turn white and he pumps into my mouth.

After the denial, I’d almost forgotten the taste of him, the smooth silkiness of his skin against my tongue. A moan escapes as he presses deeper, stifling any lingering protests as the beast is set loose. He fucks my mouth with rough strokes as his balls slap my chin. Pain shoots up my scalp, bringing tears to my eyes. Every instinct screams at me to pull away and run.

But I want this too much. Need him too much. Every taste of him sends a shiver of lust straight to my pussy, reminding me of his hot finger against my folds as he teased me. The lack of a release is torturous, making my nerves twitch and scream for contact.

His pace quickens, and his growl fills my ears. “That’s it.”

My body feels strange and uncomfortable, half-aroused, half-scared. I can’t stand this moment of suspension, being in equal parts worshipped and destroyed by this man.

And yet, I love it.

I may have started this to prove a point, but now, all I care about is his pleasure. Riding a high, I lock my jaw and suck, deeper and deeper.

His body shifts, releasing some tension. Even through the fog, I recognize the victory, pushing harder.

The next second, Vasiliy leans above me, expression thunderous. Before I can process his mood, his hand locks around my throat. He yanks his cock out of my mouth and pulls me into his lap. My panties are soaked as he shoves them aside, my naked pussy angled over the thick, blunt tip.

Gasping, I try to squirm out of his grasp, but his fingers tighten. A warning. Or a plea.

“Should I sink inside you, lisichka ?” he asks, breath fanning my face. “I want to sink deep inside you until you’re begging me to never leave again.”

“I thought you wanted?—”

“To torment you? Humiliate you? I’d rather have pleasure. Your pleasure. Whatever we’re doing here, it belongs to both of us now.”

With that, he lifts my hips, ripping my panties and slamming my body down to take his full length. His mouth crashes against mine, swallowing my cries as he sets an unforgiving rhythm, working himself deep into my pussy with each thrust.

Each stroke is a claiming, driving out every doubt with his bruising possession. It should feel like surrender. Submission. Instead, it’s a challenge. A promise that nothing between us will ever be straightforward.

“Give yourself to me,” he orders, bending me back until I have to brace my hands against his knees for support. One hand slides from my hip to the sensitive little nub between my thighs. When his rough fingers brush against my flesh, an involuntary cry spills out of my mouth.

His laugh is low and dangerous. “Let me see you fall apart, Galina. Let me watch you come undone for me.”

My fingers are too slow, my body not my own. He’s not pulling me closer or forcing me away, just claiming each piece and demanding to witness my destruction. This is all part of the game he’s playing, whether it’s a reward or a punishment. But the orgasm rocks through me like an avalanche, a storm, everything at once.

He watches, every muscle rigid and pulsing. Only then does he drive himself to his own release, emptying himself into me as our mingled cries echo through the club.

We stay like that for several seconds, panting. I should get off his lap, push him away and reclaim some distance. Instead, I rest my cheek against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the bare skin peeking out beneath his collar. This closeness is impossible, and yet I’m clinging to him like a blanket during a storm.

“When we leave here,” Vasiliy says, and I find myself shocked by his tender tone, “you should start preparing. Let’s develop your idea. Then we re-evaluate.”

It isn’t a generous gesture. Everything he says is a threat, an order he expects me to obey. No, not everything. The way he carefully sets me on my feet, steadying me as the aftershocks pass. The fact that he doesn’t yank his zipper up like after a random fuck. His warm touch on my naked thigh. None of that is a threat.

I grab my dress from the floor, putting it on. A chill crawls over my skin, but I only give him a defiant smile.

And as I make my way across the club, his presence lingers, an indelible stain on my battered heart.

If not for him, perhaps the emptiness and regret would be eating away at my core. I don’t know who I am without hatred festering in my chest, but the sense of purpose it has given me won’t guide me alone.

Because by allowing me this, he gave me a taste of what we could be.

It’s also a warning shot.

A reminder that this war between us isn’t over.