Page 33 of Crimson Sin
“Come for me,” I growl, slamming into her pussy one last time. “Soak my cock.”
Her back arches, her mouth falling open in a silent scream before the sound rips free. She shatters, her legs shaking and walls clenching around me like a vice. The feel of her coming undone beneath me, wrapped so tightly around me, shoves me over the edge.
I thrust deep, burying myself fully inside her pussy, and let go. My release hits hard, a groan torn from my throat as I spill inside her, filling her with every last drop. I hold her hips still, grinding into her as the final pulses of pleasure roll through me, intense and consuming.
She lies beneath me, panting, skin flushed and glistening, her body still trembling from the force of her orgasm. I stay buried deep inside her, unwilling to let go just yet. Her legs remain wrapped around my waist, her arms limp at her sides, completely spent.
I lean down and take her mouth, not possessively. My lips crush hers, my tongue sweeping in to claim her all over again. She moans softly into the kiss, her mouth pliant and welcoming. It’s not about sweetness. It’s about ownership. The unspoken truth that she’s mine now, in every way that matters.
When I finally pull back, I rest my forehead against hers, letting our breaths mingle. Without a word, I lift her into my arms. She lets out a soft gasp but doesn’t resist, her body curlinginstinctively into mine. I carry her across the room and lower her onto the bed, settling her into the pillows gently, even though every part of her still bears the evidence of how thoroughly I’ve taken her.
I pull the blanket over her naked body, then slide in beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against me. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t have to. She’s already mine.
Later, long after her breathing has evened out, I lie awake beside her. The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight spilling through the windows. Her body is curled against mine, warm and trusting, one hand splayed across my chest as if she's claiming me even in sleep.
But the cold still lingers. Not in my body. Her skin is fire against mine, burning away the chill that’s lived in my bones since the day Sasha died. This cold is rooted deeper. It’s emotional and hollow. Because somewhere between strategy and survival, this stopped being an act. I kissed her to send a message. I touched her to remind Viktor that she isn’t his to want, and any attempt to take her from me would end with a bullet in his skull.
But the truth is darker and more dangerous than that. I need her. Not for the inheritance or the appearance of stability. I need her with a desperation that goes against everything I've been taught about power and control. And now that I've had her, completely and without reservation, the thought of losing her and walking away when this arrangement ends terrifies me in ways I don't have words for.
In the Bratva, feelings get you killed. Weakness is a tool used against you by enemies who have no qualms about exploiting every vulnerability. And tonight, I gave my enemies somethingthey can use against me. I gave them her. I showed them exactly what matters to me, and what I would fight and die to protect.
Viktor saw it. The way I tensed when he looked at her with hunger in his eyes. The way my hands clenched into fists when he implied she'd chosen poorly in marrying me. He knows now that she's not just a convenient wife or a strategic alliance. She's my weakness.
I should push her away. Wake her up and tell her it meant nothing. Tell her I was caught up in the moment, and the heat between us was just a physical release after a stressful evening. Build the walls back up before she can burrow any deeper into the parts of me I've kept buried since Sasha's death.
Instead, I lie here staring at the ceiling, buried beneath the flood of unspoken thoughts, each one crashing down like a tide intent on dragging me under. Because that's what this is, isn't it? I've imprisoned myself with these feelings, locked myself into a situation where every choice I make will be influenced by the need to protect her and keep her safe from the violence that defines my world.
Naomi stirs in her sleep, murmurs my name in a dream, and tucks herself closer against me. Her breath is warm against my chest, and I can smell the lingering scent of her shampoo. I realize with bone-deep certainty that terrifies me more than any enemy I've ever faced that she’s not just part of the plan anymore. She's a crack in the armor I've spent thirty-two years perfecting, and I have no idea how to survive it.
11
NAOMI
I wake up alone.
The realization hits me like cold water, jarring me from the hazy warmth of sleep into stark reality. My fingers reach across the expanse of the bed, searching for Daniil, but find only empty space and sheets that have already begun to cool. The pillow beside me still holds the faint impression of his head, and when I bury my face in the fabric, I breathe in the lingering scent of his cologne.
The sheets beneath me are soft and rumpled, still warm with the memory of last night. Every nerve ending in my body seems to pulse with awareness, my skin tingling with the ghost of his touch. The soreness between my thighs is proof of how thoroughly he claimed me, and how completely I surrendered to him. This isn't the guest room with its neutral colors and impersonal furniture. This is his room. Daniil's bed. His sanctuary. And for one night, one perfect, consuming night, I wasn't just a part of the act. I was his.
He left without a word, slipping away while I was still lost in dreams. The absence of explanation stings more than I want toadmit. I sit up slowly, pulling the sheet with me, trying to hold on to the illusion of something real and lasting. But it slips through my fingers like sand, leaving me grasping at nothing.
I rise from the bed on unsteady legs and pad across the hallway to the guest bedroom. Inside the wardrobe, I find several items hung carefully. Dresses, blouses, even a few pairs of designer jeans. Everything is in my exact size, which shouldn't surprise me anymore. Daniil is nothing if not thorough in his preparations.
I choose a soft ivory cotton dress, one of the few pieces that doesn't feel like a costume designed to transform me into someone else. The fabric is buttery soft against my skin, hugging my waist before falling gently to my knees. It's delicate and feminine, a whisper against my body that reminds me of who I was before I became Mrs. Zorin. Before I became a pawn in a game I'm only beginning to understand.
The mirror in the corner of the closet reflects a mark on my collarbone, a small bruise where he sucked and bit at my skin, marking me as his. I trace it with my fingertip, remembering the heat of his mouth and the possessive way he whispered my name.
I find my phone on the nightstand, the screen showing several missed notifications. But there's only one person I want to talk to right now. One voice that still feels like solid ground in a world that keeps tilting beneath my feet. I dial Charlotte's number, sinking back onto the edge of the bed as it rings.
“Morning, lover girl,” Charlotte answers after two rings, her voice bright and teasing but tinged with underlying curiosity. I can picture her in our tiny apartment, probably still in herpajamas, coffee mug in hand. “You alive? Still married? Still in one piece?”
Her casual tone almost makes me smile, but the emotional fallout from last night wraps around my chest, tight and unrelenting. “I need to tell you something,” I manage. “And I need you not to interrupt until I finish.”
The change in her tone is immediate. “Oof. That serious? Okay, I'm sitting down. Spill.”
So, I do. I tell her everything, the words tumbling out in a rush like water through a broken dam. About the gala and how Daniil transformed me into someone I didn't recognize, draping me in his mother's diamonds like I was a treasured possession. About the way the entire room seemed to defer to him with a mix of respect and fear that instantly raised red flags. About Viktor's presence and how the temperature in the ballroom seemed to drop ten degrees the moment he came near us.
I describe the tension between the cousins thick enough to cut with a knife. And the way Viktor's eyes lingered on me with a hunger that made me feel naked. The veiled threats hidden behind polite conversation, the implications that I had chosen poorly in my husband. And then the way Daniil's control finally snapped. And how he practically dragged me from the ballroom before the evening could explode into violence.
