Page 14 of Beautifully Deranged

He flicks a glance to the ceiling, praying for patience. “Fine.” The word is dragged out of him, reluctant and gritted through his teeth. He shoves them off his big thighs, his boxers clinging low on his hips, the dark fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the shape of him. I hook my fingers into the waistband, glancing up at him. “Just a little lower,” I assure. “For the sake of the painting.”

He’s not happy, but he lets me. I pull down the fabric just enough to expose the ridges of his happy trail, the first hint of light curls beneath.

My breath catches.

Because just above the waistband is a fresh bead of his release, a leftover from our little... session.

I drag a finger through it, collecting it. I bring it to my lips, pop it into my mouth, and suck lightly before pulling it free with a quiet pop.

“You’re messy,” I murmur.

I swear he nearly snaps.

But then he exhales. Slow and Controlled.

And when he speaks, his voice is low, dark. Dangerous. “Get back to painting, sweetheart.”

For the next hour, I paint. And I make sure he suffers for it. Every now and then, my fingers skim his ribs, his hip, pretending I need to feel the heat of his skin to capture it on canvas. At one point, I lean in, close enough that my breath skates over his collarbone. “Tilt your chin up,” I whisper. “Let me see the way the light catches.”

He obeys, muscles tight with restraint. He’s at war with himself.

Poor Mikhail.

So disciplined.

So controlled.

And yet, his cock hasn’t softened once.

When I’m finally finished, I admire my work. The painting is gorgeous, brutal, raw, and everything I wanted. But there’s something else coiling inside me. Something bitter.

Because after everything—after the way I touched him, the way I all but begged him to break—

He never did.

I drop my brush in the jar and wipe my hands on my thighs. “All done.”

Mikhail acts like he’s just been released from hell. His hands move to his jeans on the floor, but I don’t linger to watch.

I gather my things and head to leave. I’m the one who’s frustrated. I’m the one who’s suffering. None of my attempts to get him to lose his inhibitions and fuck me worked.

I stride to the door and wrench it open. But I make sure he sees the way my tongue flicks out to taste the last trace of him on my lips.

?Chapter Seven?

Mikhail

I lean back against the leather of the car seat, rolling my sleeves up to my forearms, letting the cool air brush against my heated skin. The driver weaves through the streets, past the old industrial districts where half the warehouses are under my family’s control. It’s a route I know like the back of my hand.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull into a private underground parking garage beneath one of our clubs. The moment I walk into the room, I’m hit with the scent of expensive cigars and whiskey. The low hum of Russian conversations fills the air.

Roman sits at the head of the long table, broad shoulders relaxed. It's unsettling how much he mirrors our father. The Bratva barely flinched when the old man’s heart gave out. Father molded a leader, alright. A harsh, controlling bastard, yes, but you don't raise titans with a gentle hand. We never knew 'soft.' Not from him, and certainly not from the woman who picked a needle over her own children. She OD'd when we were too young to even understand what 'gone' meant.

“Mikhail,” he greets, gesturing to the chair beside him. “Glad you decided to show.”

The room is filled with familiar faces—our cousins, trusted men, enforcers. They talk, laugh, pour drinks, but beneath it all is an undercurrent of unspoken tension.

“How’s the laundering?” Roman asks, cutting straight to business.

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