Page 35 of Sin Wager
His mouth crushes mine, his tongue rough and demanding. He breaks away only to rasp against my ear, “You’re mine, Vera. Say it while I fuck it into you.”
“I’m yours,” I cry, my body clenching hard around him. “Yours, Misha—every part of me.”
He growls, gripping my throat with one hand while the other spreads across my ass, dragging me down faster, harder, until the wet slap of our bodies echoes through the suite. My orgasm builds quickly, stealing my breath.
“Come on my cock,” he orders, his teeth scraping my jaw. “Give it to me now.”
The command rips me open. Pleasure crashes through me, violent and blinding, my body shaking against him as I come undone. I scream his name, clutching him, my walls spasming tight around his cock.
“Fuck—” His snarl is guttural as he drives up into me, once, twice, then spills deep, hot and heavy, pulsing inside me until I can feel nothing but him. His hand locks on the back of my neck, holding me against his chest as his release throbs through me.
We collapse into the cushions, tangled, sweat-slick, my body trembling from the aftershocks. His cock still pulses inside me, his breath harsh against my ear.
I'm sprawled across the cushions, still straddling him, his cock still buried inside me, his breath hot against my neck. The room smells of sex and sweat, the city lights spilling gold across his skin. I should feel used, consumed, but instead there’s a strange calm in the wreckage of my body.
He shifts, rolling us onto our sides without letting me go. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him, his mouth pressed against my neck. It feels startlingly genuine—like something far more dangerous than sex.
“Misha…” My voice is rough, still trembling from what he pulled out of me.
“Mmm?” His tone is quiet, almost soft, nothing like the man who just demanded I scream his name into the dark.
For a moment I let myself believe he could be in love. The thought makes my chest ache. He’s older, harder, a man whose world is likely violence and power. And yet his arm around me feels steady, grounding. The age gap flickers in my mind—the dangerous thrill of being younger, reckless, stretched across a man who carries years of power and experience. It’s intoxicating, the way he handles me like he knows exactly what I need, the way his authority feels as solid as the body still inside me, but he brushes it aside with a quiet murmur, his lips against my temple.
He seems to hear the doubt in my silence, brushing it aside with a quiet murmur against my temple. "You're perfect…" he whispers, and I swear it feels like our hearts are in sync.
He studies my face when I tilt toward him, his gaze sharp, searching. His thumb brushes my lower lip, his voice low. “What are you holding back from me, Vera?” He pauses, watching my reaction, then adds more pointedly, “Tell me about Sonya.”
The name scrapes through me like broken glass. I flinch, my body stiffening against his. Part of me wants to spill everything—that Sonya terrifies me, that I never should have been near her, that I’m still carrying choices too reckless to admit. He deserves honesty. He deserves the truth about the hole I dug for myself.
And why is he asking this now? Am I that obvious? Is the anxious tension I carry because of her that real that even after a moment like what we just shared, he can see right through me? I know he's not pleased about my speaking with her. Otherwise he wouldn't have warned me, but the pull of safety I feel with him just isn't enough.
Fear wins. If he learns about what Sonya is, he’ll stop seeing me as the woman who caught his attention with her mind and her fire. He’ll see a foolish girl who made bad choices, who stumbled into waters too deep for her.
So I say nothing. I kiss him instead, hoping he won’t push further.
For a beat, I think he might confess something himself—something tender, something I’m not sure either of us is ready for. But I force a smile, press my hand to his chest, and deflect. “I’ve already told you about Sonya,” I murmur, steering the moment away from what scares me. “Tell me about your family instead.”
The effect is instant. His expression hardens, the warmth draining from his eyes, the muscle in his jaw tightening as though I’ve stepped onto forbidden ground.
He doesn’t answer. He only pulls me tighter, leaving a cold silence between us as he bites my shoulder and grinds his hips against my side, insinuating he's ready for more sex.
And I’m left staring at the ceiling, realizing my attempt at intimacy has backfired and wondering what it is he’s hiding—and why the truth feels like it could shatter us both.
14
MISHA
Tension crawls up my spine as I walk through the stable complex an hour before post time. The major race draws bigger crowds, bigger bets, and bigger opportunities for tampering that's been bleeding my books dry. I don't even know what I'm looking for today, but I know there has to be more to this than just Vera's betting. There is no way even with the perfect odds cast that Sonya and her crew could win so many times so strategically. They have to be fixing races too.
I move past the stalls methodically, checking on Devil's Bargain and Storm's End, watching the handlers prepare the horses for what should be straightforward competition. Should be. But nothing's been straightforward since the Radich crew decided to turn my track into their personal money fountain.
Most of the stable workers have moved to the paddock area for the pre-race preparations, leaving the building quieter than usual. Perfect conditions for work that requires privacy.
I turn the corner toward the feed storage area and freeze.
Pavel Gurevich stands beside Lightning's Crown, the three-to-one favorite for today's feature race. The jockey has his back to me, but I can see the syringe in his right hand, the way he'spositioning himself near the horse's neck. The needle catches the light for just a moment before he moves closer to the animal.
My hand moves to the knife at my belt automatically. This is the smoking gun I've been waiting for, the proof that the race fixing goes deeper than simple betting manipulation. Pavel isn't just doing his job like he claims. He's actively sabotaging horses to control race outcomes. It tells me that quiet conversation with Sonya that I witnessed wasn’t at all innocent. And I wonder what that means about his whispered laughs with Vera.
