Page 39 of Beautiful Monster

Her inner muscles clench around me at the words, drawing a groan from deep in my chest. I reach around to find the swollen bud between her legs, circling it with precise pressure that makes her thighs tremble.

"You think you're clever, hiding behind those innocent eyes," I continue, my rhythm never faltering. "But I see you, Kira. I see everything you are."

Her breathing fractures, little hitching gasps that tell me she's close. I slow my movements deliberately, making her whimper with frustration.

"Please," she whispers, the word barely audible.

I lean forward, covering her body with mine, my lips at her ear. "Please, what? Tell me what the bad girl needs."

"Please don't stop," she begs, trying to push back against me, seeking the friction I'm denying her.

I smile against her skin, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below her ear. "I won't stop," I promise, "but after this, no more pretending. No more fragile act. Not with me."

She nods frantically, and I reward her with a hard thrust that makes her cry out. I increase my pace, my control slipping as her body tightens around mine. The marble counter creaks beneath us, her knuckles white, where she grips the edge.

"Mine," I growl, the word ripped from somewhere primal inside me. "Every secret, every strength, every weakness—all mine."

Her reflection shatters into fragments of need as she comes apart beneath me, my name torn from her throat in a sound that's half prayer, half sin. The way she convulses around me, milking every inch, sends me over the edge with a growl that reverberates through the marble space.

I collapse against her back, both of us breathing hard, the mirror fogged with our exertion. Her hair clings to her damp skin, and I can taste salt when I press my lips to her shoulder.

"No more games," I murmur against her ear, still buried deep inside her warmth.

She turns her head slightly, those blue eyes finding mine in the fractured reflection. There's something different there now—an acknowledgment, perhaps. Or a challenge.

"Who says I was playing?" she whispers, and the smile that curves her lips is nothing like the demure expressions she wears for the world.

This smile has teeth.

I pull out slowly, watching her shiver at the loss, then turn her to face me. Her legs are unsteady, but she doesn't break eye contact as I straighten her panties with deliberate care, my knuckles brushing against sensitive flesh that makes her breath hitch.

"Dinner's in twenty minutes," I say, stepping back to zip my pants. "Don't be late."

I start to leave, then pause at the doorway. "And Kira? Wear the red dress. The one with no back."

Her reflection watches me go, and I can feel the heat of her gaze like a brand between my shoulder blades. My innocent little wife is full of surprises, and I find myself hungry to discover them all.

Chapter 17

Kira

The aroma of dill and paprika envelops the kitchen as a single electronic beep turns my world upside down.

I freeze, my wooden spoon suspended over the bubbling borscht that I've spent the last two hours perfecting—a surprise for Mikhail when he returns from his meeting downtown. The rich burgundy broth reflects the overhead light like spilled wine, and for a moment, I think I've imagined the sound. But my phone beeps again, insistent and sharp against the simmering stove.

The security alert glows on my screen:

Motion detected - Front entrance - Unknown individual.

My pulse hammers against my throat as I swipe to the camera feed. A man I don't recognize stands in our foyer, his weathered face scanning the marble columns and crystal chandelier with calculating eyes. He's not alone—Bogdan hovers beside him, gesturing toward the main staircase with an easy familiarity that makes my stomach clench.

Bogdan is one of Mikhail’s most trusted soldiers, installed as my bodyguard only last week when my security detail needed "reinforcements." He knows better than to allow unauthorized people into our home.

The stranger's coat drips rain onto our Persian rug, and something about the way he moves—predatory, patient—sends ice racing through my veins. This isn't a business associate or family friend. This is something else entirely.

My bare feet make no sound against the hardwood as I abandon the stove and slip toward the back hallway. The secret room Mikhail showed me on our second week of marriage—just in case, kisa—suddenly feels less like paranoia and more like salvation.

The hidden panel slides open with a whisper, and I'm swallowed by a darkness that smells of concrete and fear. My fingers shake as I find Mikhail's number, the phone's glow casting eerie shadows on the reinforced walls.

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