Feeling like his
1018 Words
**Lyla’s POV**
The room was dark when my eyes finally opened.
Not pitch black,moonlight slipped through a crack in the heavy curtains, painting thin silver lines across the floor.
I lay on my side, cheek pressed into a pillow that smelled like him,dark spice, clean linen, a hint of whiskey that lingered like a memory.
My body felt heavy. Used. Deliciously sore.
Between my legs there was still a faint, sticky warmth.
A dull throb that reminded me exactly how deep he’d been.
How hard. How long he’d kept going even after I’d shattered.
I shifted slightly.
The silk sheet slid over my bare skin like cool water.
No uniform. No nightdress. Nothing.
Just skin against silk.
That was when it hit me.
This wasn’t my narrow basement cot with its thin blanket and lumpy mattress.
This bed was massive,big enough that I could stretch out and still not reach the edges.
The headboard was carved dark wood, looming above me like a throne.
The room smelled of cedar, leather, and something expensive I couldn’t name.
A low fire had burned down to glowing embers in the fireplace across the room.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
This was *his* bedroom.
The master suite.
The one place in the entire estate no maid was ever allowed to enter alone,except to change sheets when Bernstein was watching like a hawk.
And I was here.
Naked.
In his bed.
I sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to my chest.
My muscles protested,thighs aching, lower back tender, faint bruises blooming where his fingers had gripped too hard.
I looked down.
Fingerprints on my hips.
A reddish mark on the inside of one thigh.
The faint outline of his hand around my throat,nothing dramatic, just enough that I could feel it when I swallowed.
Panic fluttered in my stomach, but it wasn’t the kind that made me want to run.
It was the kind that made my pulse race in a different way.
Hot.
Needy.
I scanned the room.
His suit jacket hung over the arm of a leather chair.
His watch sat on the nightstand,black face, heavy band.
A half-empty glass of amber liquid beside it.
The clock on the wall showed 2:14 a.m.
He’d carried me here.
After I’d passed out in the red room,limp, shaking, completely spent,he’d picked me up like I weighed nothing and brought me to *his* bed.
Not sent me back to the basement.
Not left me on the rug like some used toy.
He’d kept me.
The thought made something warm bloom low in my belly.
Something dangerous.
Something I shouldn’t want this much.
I pressed my thighs together.
Felt the soreness flare.
A soft whimper escaped before I could stop it.
The door opened quietly.
I froze.
Pulled the sheet higher.
Russo stepped inside.
Still in his black pants from earlier, shirt gone,bare chest, scars catching the low light, muscles shifting under his skin as he moved.
His hair was damp again, like he’d run his hands through it too many times.
Eyes immediately found me in the dark.
Darkened.
Softened.
Then darkened again.
He closed the door.
Locked it.
“You’re awake,” he said. Voice low. Rough. Like he hadn’t spoken in hours.
I nodded.
Couldn’t find words at first.
And how long have I been sleeping again?.
He crossed the room.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped.
I felt the heat coming off him even from two feet away.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I whispered.
“You didn’t have a choice.”
One corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile.
“I f****d you until you couldn’t stay conscious.”
Heat flooded my face.
My cunt clenched at the memory.
He reached out.
Brushed his knuckles down my cheek.
Gentle.
Almost tender.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he said. Not a question. A statement.
I swallowed.
“My room...”
“Is not your room anymore.”
The words landed heavy.
Final.
He leaned closer.
Forehead almost touching mine.
“From now on, you sleep here. In my bed. Next to me. Under me. On top of me. However I want you.”
His hand slid to the back of my neck, firm, possessive.
“You wake up here. . You belong here.”
My breath hitched.
“And the staff? My friends?” I asked quietly.
“They’ll see. They’ll know.”
“Let them.”
His thumb stroked the side of my throat right over the faint bruise he’d left.
“Let them whisper. Let them stare. Let them be afraid.”
I searched his face.
Saw the darkness there.
The hunger.
The absolute certainty.
“You’re not afraid of what they’ll say?”
“I’m afraid of only one thing,” he murmured.
His mouth brushed mine, soft, barely there.
“Losing you.”
The confession hit me harder than any thrust last night.
I closed the distance.
Kissed him.
Soft at first.
Then deeper.
Needy.
He groaned into my mouth.
Pulled me onto his lap without breaking the kiss.
The sheet fell away.
My bare breasts pressed against his chest.
His hands roamed,down my back, over my ass, gripping hard enough to make me gasp.
When he finally pulled back, his voice was rougher.
“Go back to sleep.”
“I’m not tired anymore.”
A low laugh rumbled in his chest.
“You will be.”
He laid me back down.
Covered me with the sheet again.
But he didn’t leave.
He stripped off his pants.
Slid into bed beside me.
Pulled me against him, my back to his front, his arm heavy across my waist, his c√√k already half-hard against my a√√s.
“Sleep,” he ordered softly against my ear.
I closed my eyes.
Felt his heartbeat steady against my spine.
Felt his breathing slow.
The house was quiet.
I was in his bed.
In his arms.
Marked.
Claimed.
Kept.
Since I’d walked into this estate six months ago…
I didn’t feel like a maid.
I felt like his.
Completely.
****
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