Page 8 of Tattooed Vow

Sleep comes fast. And with it, the dream.

We’re back in the wine cellar. But this time, I don’t stop him.

He peels my sundress off slowly, his hands reverent and rough all at once. His mouth explores every inch of my skin, worshiping me like I’m a goddess made of fire and smoke. I claw at his shirt, desperate to feel him.

He pushes me against the wall, his mouth hot on my throat, his voice a growl in my ear. “You’re mine,malyshka. Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasp.

His fingers slip beneath the waistband of my black silk panties, tearing them away from my body. A moan escapes my lips as his hand curls against my bare ass. My head spins. My heartraces. His tongue slips into my mouth, tasting and teasing like I’m the most decadent thing he’s ever eaten.

He kicks off his pants, circles his lips around my nipple, and slides his fingers between my legs.

“You’re so wet,” he grunts.

I cry out as he thrusts two thick fingers inside me. Grabbing his neck, I kiss him hard to keep from screaming. He fucks me deep and fast, and I roll my hips, grinding against his hand.

The heat inside me builds into a fiery inferno. I’m desperate. My core tightens.

“Please,” I beg.

He rolls his thumb over my clit, and I shatter. Stars dance behind my eyes. My world tilts.

Before I can catch my breath, he thrusts his long, hard cock into my throbbing pussy. This isn’t just sex. It’s annihilation. The pleasure is so fierce I cry out, clinging to him like a lifeline. He’s already ruined me for every other man, and he hasn’t even finished yet.

“Fuck…” he growls against my neck, gripping my hair with one hand and wrapping the other around my throat. He squeezes, just enough pressure to make my back arch off the wall.

“Yes…p-please…” I whimper.

Black spots dance in my vision. My orgasm builds.

He lifts me into his arms, thrusting deep as his balls slap against me. I lock my ankles behind his back and hold on while he spews curses in Russian.

With one final thrust, he groans, shooting his hot cum inside me.

My orgasm hits like a freight train. I explode into a million pieces as he fills me up. He presses my back against the wall and rests his forehead on mine, his cock jerking inside me.

When we finally catch our breath, he lowers me gently to the ground. Hooking his finger beneath my chin, he tilts my face and kisses me reverently.

I wake drenched in sweat, gasping his name. Heart racing. Core throbbing.

I groan and roll into the pillow, covering my face with my hands.

“Damn you, Dimitri Popov.”

Because no matter how hard I try to fight it, I’m already his. Even if I don’t want to be.

4

DIMITRI

The iron scent of sweat and steel hangs heavy in the Avilov training room. Early evening light filters through the frosted windows as the sun dips lower in the sky. The party is over. The guests have long since departed, leaving only the lingering scent of champagne, expensive cigars, and perfume. The quiet suits me.

The Avilov training room is nothing like the luxury in the rest of the estate. It's stripped bare of anything unnecessary, all sharp edges and harsh lines. Exposed concrete walls bear the scars of years of impact and stray punches, cracked and patched like the men who train within them.

A row of heavy bags hangs unevenly along one wall, the leather scuffed and darkened from constant abuse. Metal lockers line the far corner. The faint scent of sweat, gun oil, and blood clings to the air, seeping into every crack. In one corner, a small collection of weapons sits locked behind a steel mesh cage, a reminder that fists aren't always enough in this world.

This isn’t a place for comfort. It’s a place to break yourself down and build yourself back up. This room is for cracking bones and creating monsters.

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