The first strike was a thunderclap of heat against her ass, a bloom of pain that stole her breath and left her gasping against the polished mahogany. Her fingers scrabbled at the table's edge, finding no purchase, and the crystal glass wobbled, ice chiming against crystal.
Roman's hand didn't lift. He pressed his palm flat against the stinging skin, fingers spread wide, holding the heat he'd just put there. Elena could feel the calluses on his palm through the thin silk of her dress—rough patches earned from years of bare-knuckle fighting, hands that had broken men's jaws now pressed against her ass like he owned it.
Because he did. The contract said so. The debt said so. Her mother's medical bills, her brother's tuition, the mortgage on a house that was never really hers—all of it bought with this marriage. With this moment. With his hand on her ass and her body already betraying her.
"You don't eat what I provide," he repeated, voice low and unhurried, thick with that Russian accent that made every word sound like a sentence. His thumb traced a slow circle on her hip, and she felt her muscles clench beneath his touch.
"I told you—"
The second strike landed harder, lower, catching the sensitive curve where her ass met her thigh. Elena bit down on her lip, tasted copper, felt the moan trapped in her throat like a living thing. Her hips bucked against the table, grinding her against the wood, and the friction sent a jolt of something hot and shameful straight to her cunt.
He was going to feel it. When he lifted her dress, he was going to see the wet spot on her panties and know.
"You told me you weren't hungry." Roman's hand kneaded the fresh sting into her skin, and she heard the smile in his voice without needing to see it. "But your body is hungry for something else."
He hiked her dress higher, baring her thighs to the dining room's chill air. The silk bunched around her waist, and she felt exposed—not just her body, but the truth of it, the slick heat between her legs that she couldn't hide, couldn't explain, couldn't stop.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties, and Elena's whole body went rigid. Not from fear. From wanting.
"Please—"
"Please what?" The fabric stretched taut against her hip, and she could feel him leaning closer, his chest a wall of heat behind her. "Please stop? Please continue? You don't know what you're asking for, Elena. But I do."
The word hung between them—please—and Elena felt her own voice like a stranger's, thin and ragged, nothing like the sharp defiance she'd worn into this marriage three hours ago. Her cheek pressed cold against the mahogany, and somewhere in the dining room's silence, a clock was ticking, measuring out the seconds between her begging and his answer.
His fingers tightened on the waistband. The elastic bit into her hips, and then he pulled—slow, deliberate, the fabric sliding down her thighs with a whisper that felt louder than any scream. Cold air kissed the backs of her knees, then the curve of her ass, and she heard herself make a sound she'd never made before. Low. Broken. A moan that started somewhere in her chest and crawled up her throat before she could choke it back.
Roman stopped. His hand stilled on the bunched silk at her knees, and she could feel him looking at her—at the slick heat now bare to the dining room's chill, at the evidence she couldn't hide anymore. Her cunt was wet. Swollen. The lips already parted, already glistening under the dim pendant light, and she knew he could see it, knew he was cataloging every shameful detail the way he cataloged opponents before a fight.
"There it is," he murmured, and his voice had dropped lower, rougher, the accent thickening around the words. His free hand found her ass again, palm spreading heat across the still-stinging skin, and she felt her muscles clench—not from the pain this time. From the waiting. From the way her body was opening for him without permission.
"You're dripping." He said it like an observation, clinical and certain, but his thumb had moved, tracing the crease where her thigh met her ass, and she could hear the shift in his breathing. "On my dining table. Before I've even touched you."
Elena squeezed her eyes shut. The moan was still echoing in her head, that traitor sound, and now this—her cunt exposed, her arousal smearing against the polished wood, her body telling him everything her mouth refused to say. She wanted to hate him. She did hate him. But her hips were pressing back into his hand, and the ache between her legs was becoming unbearable, a hollow throb that made her want to grind against something—anything—just to relieve the pressure.
"Look at me."
She couldn't. If she looked at him, she'd see those pale blue eyes reading her like an open ledger, and she wasn't ready to be that seen. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
His hand left her ass. She heard him shift behind her, felt the heat of his chest retreat for one cold, terrifying second—and then his fingers were on her, two thick fingers sliding through her wetness, spreading her open, and the moan that tore out of her this time was loud enough to shame her for the rest of her life.
"When I tell you to look at me," Roman said, his fingers still moving, still exploring her with that same measured precision he brought to everything, "you look at me. You don't get to hide from what your body wants. Not in my house."
She turned her head. Her honey-brown eyes met his pale blue ones over the curve of her own shoulder, and she watched him watch her—watched his jaw tighten, watched the scar above his eyebrow whiten as something dark moved behind his face. His fingers were inside her now, one knuckle deep, then two, and she could hear how wet she was, could hear the slick sound of his hand working her open while she held his gaze and tried not to fall apart.
The withdrawal was brutal in its precision. One moment his fingers were inside her, thick and unyielding, stretching her open with a possession that felt absolute—and then nothing. Just the cold air of the dining room rushing in to fill the space his hand had occupied, the wet sound of her own arousal loud in the silence as he pulled free.
Elena's cunt clenched around emptiness, a desperate, involuntary spasm that made her gasp against the mahogany. She could feel herself dripping, could feel the slick trail of her own need smearing down her inner thigh, and the humiliation of it—the raw, exposed truth of her body wanting something her mind still refused to name—burned hotter than his palm ever had.
Behind her, Roman was silent. She could hear his breathing, rougher than before, but controlled. Always controlled. The bastard was probably watching her, cataloging every tremor, every clench, every shameful drop of wetness that betrayed her.
"You want to know what I see?" His voice was low, thick with that accent, and she heard him shift his weight. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. "I see a woman who came into my house with fire in her eyes and defiance on her tongue. And now—"
She heard him. She heard the slick sound of his fingers—her wetness—as he brought them to his mouth.
"Now I taste a woman whose body knows exactly what it needs."
Elena squeezed her eyes shut. The sound of him tasting her, the wet click of his tongue against his fingers, was more intimate than the penetration had been. It was a claim. A declaration. A man who would consume every part of her and call it ownership.
"Turn around."
She couldn't move. Her legs were trembling, her dress still bunched around her waist, her panties a crumpled ruin at her knees. If she turned, he'd see all of her—the wet thighs, the swollen cunt, the flush creeping up her chest and throat. He'd see the evidence of what his hand had done to her, and she wasn't ready to face that.
"I won't repeat myself."
The command landed like a physical blow. Her body obeyed before her mind could intervene, pushing herself upright on shaking arms, turning to face him with her back pressed against the table's edge. The wood was cold through her thin dress, and she gripped it for support, her knuckles white.
Roman stood three feet away, his pale blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made breathing difficult. His fingers were still wet. She could see the shine on them in the dim light, and the sight of her own arousal on his hand made her stomach clench with something that wasn't quite shame. His jaw was tight, the scar above his eyebrow a thin white line against his skin, and beneath the expensive fabric of his slacks, she could see the outline of his cock—hard, straining, undeniable.
"You're going to stand there," he said, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, "with your dress around your waist and your cunt dripping on my floor, and you're going to tell me what you want."
Elena's throat worked. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The ache between her legs was unbearable now, a hollow throbbing that made her hips want to buck against nothing, and he was asking her to name it. To give voice to the thing her body had already confessed.
His eyes never left hers as he took a single step forward, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. His hand—the dry one—came up to her chin, tilting her face upward with a gentleness that felt more dangerous than violence. "Say it, Elena. I want to hear you say it."
Her hand moved before her mind caught up—a betrayal of nerve and need that closed the distance between them without permission. Her fingers found the hard ridge beneath his slacks, the heat of him searing through expensive wool, and she felt her own pulse jump in her throat as she cupped him.
Roman went still. The hand on her chin didn't tighten, didn't pull away—just held her there, those pale blue eyes fixed on her face while her palm mapped the shape of his cock through fabric. Thick. Straining. The damp spot where his arousal had already soaked through told her everything his composure tried to hide.
"This," she whispered, and her voice was cracked glass, but her fingers were steady now, curling around him with a pressure that made his jaw flex. "This is what I want."
His breath left him in a sound she hadn't heard before—not quite a growl, not quite a groan, something caught between violence and surrender that vibrated through his chest and into the hand still holding her chin. She felt the shift in him, the way his hips pressed into her palm before he could stop them, and the power of it—the knowledge that she could make this brutal, controlled man rut against her hand—sent a fresh wave of wetness down her inner thigh.
"You're still not saying it." His voice was rough, gravel dragged over glass, but his free hand had found her hip, fingers digging into the bare skin above her bunched dress with a desperation that contradicted every measured word. "I asked you to say what you want."
"I know." She squeezed him through the wool, watched the scar above his eyebrow whiten as something dangerous flashed through his eyes. "But you already taste it on your fingers. You already see it on your table. Why do you need the words?"
His grip on her chin tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who was supposed to be in control. But his cock was throbbing against her palm, and she could feel the damp heat of his pre-cum soaking through to her skin, and the contradiction was maddening. He wanted her submission, but his body was begging for hers.
"Because," Roman said, and his accent had thickened to something almost unintelligible, Russian consonants bleeding into English vowels, "when you say it, you cannot pretend it didn't happen. You cannot tell yourself I forced you. You chose. You spoke. You own it."
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere she'd been guarding since she walked into this mausoleum of dark wood and silver. He wasn't asking for surrender—he was asking for complicity. For her to admit she wanted this as much as he did, that her cunt dripping on his dining table wasn't just a bodily reflex but a choice she was making with every breath.
"I want your cock in my hand," she said, and the words came out steady, certain, nothing like the broken plea she'd offered before. Her fingers worked the button of his slacks, the zipper, the elastic of his briefs beneath. "I want to feel what I do to you. I want proof that I'm not the only one falling apart."
Roman let her. His hand dropped from her chin, and he stood motionless while she freed him—watched her with those pale blue eyes as his cock sprang into the open air, thick and flushed and already slick at the tip, and the sound he made when she wrapped her fingers around bare skin was nothing like control. It was hunger. Raw and unguarded and entirely hers.
She didn't release him. Her fingers stayed wrapped around the thick heat of his cock while something unreadable moved through his pale eyes—a flicker, a fracture, a decision she felt before she saw it. His hand on her hip tightened, then released. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he dropped.
Not a stumble. Not a fall. Roman Volkov went to his knees like a man who had chosen exactly where he wanted to be, and the sight of him there—this brutal, controlled giant kneeling at her feet while his cock still throbbed in her palm—hit Elena harder than any spanking ever could.
"You wanted proof." His voice was rough gravel, his accent thick enough to choke on, and he wasn't looking at her face anymore. He was looking at the mess between her thighs, the slick shine of her arousal smeared across her skin, and the hunger in his expression made her cunt clench on empty air. "You'll have it."
She let go of his cock. Couldn't help it—the shock of his submission was too much, her fingers loosening before her brain could catch up. He didn't stand. Didn't reclaim the height advantage. Instead, his hands found her inner thighs, palms rough and warm, and he pushed her legs apart with a gentleness that felt like being slowly unarmed.
"The table," he said, and now he did look up at her, those pale blue eyes burning from beneath the scar above his eyebrow. "Sit."
She sat. Not because he commanded—because her legs wouldn't hold her anymore, because the sight of Roman Volkov on his knees in front of her cunt had turned her bones to water. The mahogany was cold through her dress, but his breath was hot against her inner thigh, and when his mouth finally touched her skin, she made a sound that wasn't quite a scream.
He didn't lick her cunt. Not yet. He pressed his open mouth to the inside of her thigh and tasted the wetness that had been dripping there since he'd bent her over his table, and the groan he let out—low, deep, vibrating through her flesh—was the most honest sound she'd ever heard him make. His tongue dragged upward, slow, deliberate, cleaning her slick skin like he couldn't bear to waste a single drop of what she'd given him.
"Roman—" His name came out broken, half-protest and half-plea, and her hands found his head without permission, fingers sinking into dark brown hair cropped close to his skull.
"You taste the way I knew you would." His lips moved against her skin, stubble scraping the tender flesh of her inner thigh, and she could feel him inhaling her—actually breathing her in like she was oxygen and he'd been drowning. "Say it again. My name."
"Roman." This time it was surrender, raw and unguarded, and the sound of it made his cock jerk against his unbuttoned slacks. She could see it from this angle—thick and flushed and slick at the tip, straining toward nothing while he knelt between her legs and worshipped her with his mouth. The contradiction was obscene. She was the one spread open and exposed, but he was the one on his knees, and the power of it made her dizzy.
His tongue found her cunt. Not the delicate flick of a man testing the waters—the flat, broad stroke of a man claiming territory, sliding through her wet folds with a pressure that made her hips buck against his face. She heard herself moan, heard the wet sound of his mouth working her open, and when his lips closed around her clit and sucked, she grabbed his hair and pulled.
He groaned into her flesh. His hands clamped down on her thighs, holding her open while his tongue flicked against the swollen bud of her clit, and she could feel him everywhere—his stubble burning her sensitive skin, his breath hot and uneven, his fingers digging bruises into her legs that she'd feel for days. He ate her like he'd been starving since the moment she walked into his house, and maybe he had.
The pressure coiled low in her belly, a tight, pulsing knot that pulled tighter with every stroke of his tongue. She could feel herself dripping onto his chin, hear the obscene, wet sounds of his mouth working her open, and when he sucked her clit between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue against the swollen bud, something inside her snapped.
Her orgasm hit like a fist—sudden, brutal, ripping through her cunt in waves of heat that made her back arch off the table and her fingers twist in his hair hard enough to hurt. She screamed. Couldn't help it. The sound tore out of her throat, raw and broken, and her hips bucked against his face while her clit pulsed against his tongue. Every nerve in her body lit up, white-hot and unbearable, and she heard herself sobbing his name like a prayer.