His mouth found her cunt.
Not the devouring hunger from the dining table. Not the command that had wrecked her against his tongue until she screamed. This was something else entirely—his lips parting against her folds with a reverence that made her stomach drop, his breath hot and shaking as he exhaled against the wet heat of her. His tongue moved slow. Tracing. Learning. Like a man reading braille, desperate to memorize something he was terrified of losing.
She gasped his name and felt the shudder rip through his shoulders. It started in the thick muscle of his back and traveled down his spine in a wave she could feel through his mouth, through the vibration of it against her clit. His groan was muffled against her flesh, raw and broken, and then she felt it—wet heat sliding down her inner thigh that wasn't from her.
His tears.
Roman Volkov, who had broken men's bones with these same hands, who had bent her over a table and spanked her until she sobbed, was crying against her cunt. His shoulders shook. His fingers dug into her thighs hard enough to bruise, and still his tongue kept moving, kept worshipping, kept pushing deeper into her like he could crawl inside her and never come out.
"Roman." Her voice cracked. She tightened her fingers in his dark hair and pulled.
He resisted. His mouth sealed over her clit and sucked, a broken sound vibrating through the bundle of nerves, and her hips bucked against his face. For a moment she could barely breathe, the pleasure sharp enough to cut through everything else. But she pulled again, harder, forcing his head back until his mouth left her with a wet sound and his pale blue eyes met hers.
What she saw stopped her heart.
This wasn't the fighter. Wasn't the predator who watched her from doorways with that terrifying stillness. This was a man drowning. His face was wet, tears still tracking through the slick she'd left on his chin, his expression so bare and wrecked she felt it like a fist to her sternum. He'd been alone so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to be held, and now he was on his knees between her thighs, shaking apart, and he didn't know what to do with it.
"Elena." Her name scraped out of his throat like it hurt. His hands were still gripping her thighs, and she could feel them trembling.
She pushed him back onto the carpet.
He went without resistance, his broad shoulders hitting the hardwood with a sound that was more exhale than impact. The lamplight carved shadows across his chest, across the scar above his left eyebrow, across the wrecked openness of his face. He looked up at her like she was the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid. She climbed over him, straddling his hips, her thighs bracketing the iron heat of his cock where it pressed against her belly.
She reached down and wrapped her fingers around him. Thick and hot and already slick at the tip, leaking against her palm. He made a sound she'd never heard from him before—a whimper, high and desperate, his hips lifting off the carpet like his body couldn't help itself. She positioned him at her entrance, let the head of his cock press against the wet heat of her cunt, and watched his face.
"Look at me," she said.
His pale eyes found hers. And she sank down onto him—slow, inexorable, taking every inch until she was seated against his hips, full to the point of bursting. The stretch stole her breath. He was so thick, so deep, and her cunt clenched around him in involuntary pulses that made his jaw go slack. His eyes rolled back. His hands found her hips with a desperation that would leave bruises, fingers digging in like she was the only anchor in a storm.
"Elena." Her name shattered on his tongue. He thrust up into her without rhythm, without control, just raw need driving his hips off the carpet and into the clutch of her body. She rode him through it, meeting each desperate surge, and watched the exact moment the last wall came down. His face crumpled. His mouth opened on a sound that was half sob, half prayer. And when he came, hot and deep and endless inside her, the sound he made was her name. Broken. Beautiful. Hers.
The sound cut through everything—a harsh electronic buzz vibrating against the wood of the coffee table.
Elena felt Roman's cock twitch inside her, still half-hard, still buried deep. His hands tightened on her hips, a reflexive clench that would leave fingerprints on her skin. She didn't move. Neither did he.
The phone buzzed again. Insistent. Ugly.
Roman's jaw tightened. The wrecked openness in his face shuttered, muscle by muscle, and she watched the predator swim back up to the surface. His pale blue eyes flicked toward the coffee table, and something cold moved through them. A name. A debt. A violence that had nothing to do with her.
"Don't," she said.
His gaze snapped back to her. Still inside her. Still trembling. The phone kept buzzing.
"Don't go back there." She pressed her palms flat against his chest, felt the thunder of his heart beneath the iron muscle. "You're still inside me. Stay here."
The buzzing stopped. Silence rushed in—thick and waiting. Roman's hands were still locked on her hips, and she could feel the war in his grip, the way his fingers flexed between holding and hurting. His cock was still thick inside her, and she clenched around him deliberately, a slow squeeze that made his breath catch.
"Elena." Her name came out scraped raw, half warning, half plea.
"Whoever it is, whatever they want—" she leaned down, her lips brushing the scar above his left eyebrow, "—they don't get to have you right now. This is still ours."
The phone started buzzing again. Roman's whole body went rigid beneath her, and she felt the choice in his muscles—the pull toward violence, toward the fighter who answered every call, toward the man who'd spent years alone because answering was easier than staying. She cupped his jaw, forced his eyes back to hers.
"Let it ring."
She didn't let it ring.
Elena slid off him in one motion—his cock slipping free with a wet sound that made him suck a breath through his teeth—and her bare feet hit the cold hardwood before he could stop her. His hand shot out, caught air where her hip had been. She was already at the coffee table, already scooping up the phone with fingers that were still slick from her own arousal, and when she saw the name on the screen—Viktor Gorin—she didn't hesitate.
"Elena." Roman's voice was a whip crack behind her. "Put it down."
She answered the call.
"Who is this?" The voice on the other end was gravel and broken glass, thick with a Russian accent that made Roman's sound gentle by comparison. "Where is Volkov?"
"He's busy." Elena's voice came out steady. Bored, even. She turned to face Roman, who had risen to his knees on the carpet, his cock still hard and glistening with her, his face carved into something between fury and terror. "Who's asking?"
A pause. Then a laugh—low, ugly, the kind of sound that made her skin want to crawl off her bones. "His wife. The Vasquez girl." He said her name like he'd tasted it before and found it lacking. "You answer his phone now? He trains you better than I thought."
"Viktor." Roman was on his feet now, crossing the room in three strides, and she saw the fighter fully surfaced—the predator she'd married, every muscle coiled, every instinct screaming violence. He reached for the phone. She stepped back.
"You're Gorin." She kept her eyes locked on Roman's. "You're the one who wants him back in the ring."
"Back in the ring." Another laugh, wetter this time. "Is that what he told you? No, myshka. I don't want him fighting. I want him bleeding. There's a difference."
Roman's hand closed around her wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to tell her this was dangerous, this was his world and she'd just walked into it barefoot and naked and smelling like sex. She didn't pull away. She pressed the phone harder to her ear.
"He's not available for bleeding," she said. "Not tonight. Not ever. Find someone else to break."
The line went dead.