Page 54 of Blazing Embers

“Good,” he growls.

His hands grip my waist with an intense ferocity, and he lifts me off the ground. My back slams into the bark of the tree, its jagged edges biting through my skin, but I don’t care. I need it to hurt. I need to feel something real.

I need to feel the head of his torso so I rip his shirt open, shucking it off to drop beside me on the ground. His magnificent body presses against mine. The soft hair of his chest rubs against my aching nipple. I dig my nails into his back, scoring welts down his skin.

The winter air tears around us, but I’m burning.

I’m on the edge and howl in frustration when he rips his finger from me. His lips tease mine, and I’m about to beg for release as he plunges into me in one swift motion. We both gasp at the intensity of our connection. Our eyes lock, filled with a wild hunger that cannot be denied. He begins to thrust deep inside me, filling me completely with every stroke. The sensation of his cock sliding into me is a mixture of pain and pleasure that sends electric jolts through every nerve in my body.

I barely feel the rough scrape of the bark on my back. My nails leave red trails down Ruslan’s back as he continues to pound into me relentlessly. His moans are as hungry and raw as mine.He grips my hips tightly, controlling our rhythm with an almost animalistic dominance.

The forest surrounds us; its deafening silence amplifying the sounds of our ragged breaths, moans, and the wet slapping of skin against skin. We move together in a primal dance fueled by rage and passion.

As Ruslan's thrusts become more urgent, a coil of heat tightens inside me. My body trembles on the verge of release when, finally, with one final deep penetration, it snaps. Waves of intense pleasure crash over me as I cry out his name, gripping him tighter as if to anchor myself amidst the powerful storm raging within me.

Seconds later, Ruslan follows me over the edge. With a guttural roar, he buries himself deep inside me and releases his seed. His forehead presses against mine as we both shake from the aftershocks of our joint climax.

We stand there for a moment, connected in our raw and vulnerable state, bound together by emotions far more potent than lust.

Finally, Ruslan pulls back and drops me so suddenly I nearly land on my ass but I manage to stabilize myself.

His eyes are cold as he snaps, “Get cleaned up. We have guests who are eager to meet you.”

I blink. Confused by Ruslan's transformation from such passionate heat to ice, my confused brain wonders who would want to know me? “People from America?”

“No. Your grandfather. And your aunt.” His eyes rake over me. “Your Russian family.”

Suddenly, the fog in my brain clears, and I remember the people who arrived in the helicopter.

18

TARA

The ceremony is over. I don’t remember much of it. It drifted by in a blur of silk, chants, and cold stares. I remember Ruslan’s hand around mine, firm and unyielding. I remember the moment my signature hit the ceremonial ledger and how the air in the village hall seemed to shift like something ancient had stirred.

Now I stand in Ruslan's house—if you can call this towering fortress of dark wood and iron that—and the quiet hum of celebration lingers beyond the frost-kissed windows. I’m stripped bare of the historic gown sewn for my mother decades ago by a woman I haven’t yet met, my great-grandmother, Ofeliya Zorin—the woman who also handcrafted the gorgeous tiara on top of my head.

I don’t want to take off my beautiful gown or tiara. I want my family and friends to have been here. To have witnessed me in this gown and my crown getting married.

But no. I’m in a foreign land where I have no memories of being born in, and my only relatives are people I don’t know and havenever met. Well, as Tara Craft, I had never met them. I was too young to remember then before I was smuggled out of Russia.

As my gown is stripped away by the hands of the village woman chosen to help me get ready for my wedding night. Like, I’m sort of a shrinking virgin. I turn and see my gorgeous wedding dress carefully draped across a wooden bench, the delicate hand-sewn diamonds catching the last of the firelight.

Someone removes the tiara from my head, fingers gentle but impersonal. It’s carved from white gold, diamonds glinting along the delicate spine, a jewel almost the exact hue of my eyes centered like a curse.

A woman enters, one of the village elders I’ve seen in the background, always watching, always silent. She gestures, and I follow without speaking.

My eyes widen. There is a bath that has been drawn for me. Steam furls off the water in the clawfoot tub.

“Your bath is ready, My Lady,” the woman’s soft voice whispers in my ear.

It’s obscene in its beauty. The old-fashioned tub is filled with steaming, scented water. Rose petals float on the surface, mingling with herbs I can’t identify. Women stand on all sides, and one of them—Liddy, my aunt, my father's sister—smiles at me. Her face is familiar in a way that hurts. Like my father. Like home.

Another familiar face is Ruslan's sister, Irina’s twin, Nadia. I know her. I’ve met her a few times; She came to visit Irina in America.

The woman’s reverent hands slip away my underwear leaving me feeling rather awkward and I have no idea how Cleopatra enjoyed this sort of shit but I don't resist.It’s traditional, Tara,Liddy and Nadia told me.Just go with it.Nadia had whispered in my ear.It's also quite erotic. Don’t worry, I’ll be washing your pussy.My cheeks had flamed, but then she winked and I knew she was teasing me.

As I step into the bath, the heat wraps around my skin like a second womb. They wash me like a relic. Hands on my arms, legs, shoulders, and breasts.

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