Ivory Ashes

Chapter 3 Episode 3

“You think I came to save you? Is that why you’re putting on this little show for me?” He crosses the distance between us and swats the glass shards out of my hand. They rain down over my bare feet, but I barely feel it. Not when Mikhail is staring into my soul. “Am I to collect my reward now?”

My cheeks burn. “I’m not putting on a show! I’m cleaning up the mess you and your brother made.”

“This is why you’re not the right fit for this world,” he says almost to himself. “Someone does one nice thing for you and you’re throwing away your chance at freedom. You don’t owe me anything, Viviana. I didn’t come here to save you.”

If he keeps saying that, I might start to believe him.

Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, though. As it is, my heart is doing an interesting little dubstep in my chest.

“You said Trofim wasn’t a good fit for this world.”

“But now, I’m not a good fit, either? Why not?” It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care, actually. Still, I find myself adding, “Is that why I’ve never seen you with a woman before? Because no one is good enough for you?”

He’s silent for a moment. His breath rasps in his chest, his throat, past his lips in plumes of mint and champagne. Then he sighs.

“Leave,” he snarls even as he shifts closer to me. My hip brushes against his leg.

I stretch onto my toes. “You don’t want to honor the deal our fathers made because you think you’re better than me.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when Mikhail’s hand grips my neck. His thumb works into my pulse point as he tilts my head back so he’s towering over me. “This has nothing to do with me being better than you.”

I swallow, my neck bobbing against his fingers. “Then what’s it about?”

He dips his head. More mint and sweet champagne wash over me as he whispers, “It’s about me being the worst possible thing for you.”

Who could be worse than Trofim?

Mikhail seems to see the question in my frown. He slides closer. His erection pushes against the lace of my nightgown and my eyes flare wide.

“My brother wanted you for a wife. He wanted an alliance. I couldn't care less about that. f**k the deal our fathers made." His thumb strokes possessively along the column of my neck. "There is only one thing I want from you, Viviana."

It’s out of me before I can stop myself.

Mikhail shakes his head and walks me backwards. His long legs brush against mine until I fall back onto the bed.

“You shouldn’t let yourself be someone’s pawn. Not in this world.” He looks down at me for a second before he wraps his big hands around my hips and jerks me to the edge of the bed. “I’m going to teach you why.”

“Trofim didn’t deserve this,” he muses as he strokes the outer curve of my ass, discovering an erogenous zone I didn’t know existed five seconds ago.

No, he must mean s*x in general.

I tend to agree. For the sake of the human race and future generations, Trofim and his evil seed shouldn’t be allowed near any v*****s.

“Trofim and I never… We didn’t… It was part of the arrangement. He never even came to my apartment.”

I don’t know why I feel the need to explain, but I do.

As soon as Iakov Novikov informed his son he couldn’t touch me until we were married, I expected Trofim to throw a temper tantrum. Our engagement was planned by our respective paternal overlords to be just over six months long. That kind of celibacy was a lot to ask, even for me. Not that I had any desire to do the dirty with Trofim.

But the only desire Trofim had was to knock me around.

“You were together for six months.” Mikhail sounds confused. Like that math isn’t even close to mathing. Six months with no s*x? Impossible.

I can practically hear his thoughts now. What’s the point of living if I can’t rip off my shirt and ravage maidens on the daily?

To be fair, as a maiden about to be ravaged, I get it. The promise of seeing what’s going on beneath Mikhail’s shirt is the current singular focus of my life.

“I’m sure six months without s*x is like a lifetime for you,” I drawl.

“Only the last six months.”

I don’t have time to understand what that means before he strokes his thumb over the soaked front of my panties. He groans a single time. Just one deep sound, low in his throat, before he slips his thumb under the lace. He plays in my wetness, dragging it up and down until I’m covered in myself. When the calloused pad of his thumb brushes over my c**t, I jerk off the bed.

Mikhail arches a brow like I’m an interesting puzzle and does it again.

I want him to say something. I want him to talk dirty. Tell me I’m beautiful. Hell, call me a dirty slut. Just give me something.

But he is the same stoic, detached Mikhail I’ve seen only in passing for the last six months. Except now, he’s sliding his thick middle finger inside of me.

“Oh my God.” I arch my back, my head lolling against the mattress.

Mikhail is working his finger into me with an aloof professionalism that I am not in any way matching. He’s calm, cool, and collected—I’m an absolute f*****g mess.

I moan, rolling my hips to take more of him. I need more. I reach down and grab his wrist. I’m prepared to f**k myself with his finger if I have to.

But before I can, he pulls out of me.

I start to sit up, my body pulsing helplessly around nothing, my mind whirring as I try to come up with the world’s least-prepared, most-convincing argument for why he should always be inside of me, starting, like, rightfuckingnow. Then Mikhail takes my wrist and pins my arm to the mattress above my head.

Belatedly, I register that he has unzipped his pants. That’s probably why he let go of my wrist. To get himself ready.

Then my logistical thoughts burn up like space junk entering the atmosphere as Mikhail enters me. He presses his c**k to my throbbing p***y and slides in.

“Big,” I gasp. Sometime in the last six months, I must have lost my filter. Sometime in the last six seconds, I lost the power of speech.

But I’m not wrong. Just the head of him feels like too much.

His fingers dig into the soft curves of my hips as he braces me. He holds me still as he fills me in a relentless, heady stroke.

“Better than I imagined,” he rasps, sliding deeper inside of me.

Somewhere in the distance, a record scratches. Mikhail imagined this? Me? Us?

I don’t have the neurons to process that. Not when I’m already at the brink of physical overwhelm processing the way he’s stretching me. The way I’ve never been this full. The way people write songs about s*x like this and here I am, having it, with Mikhail Novikov.

The brother of the man I was supposed to marry.

This is not the way I thought tonight was going to go.

I lift my hips and we fall together at a new angle. I clamp down around him. And Mikhail grunts.

My vision is blurring, but I look up at him. He’s over top of me, granite jaw clenched. His lower lip is curled between his teeth. His brow is furrowed.

Testing a theory, I tighten around Mikhail again.

He growls and drives into me harder. His hand is wrapped so tightly around my wrist that my fingers are going numb. I send a silent thanks out to the editors of Cosmo for being a girl’s best friend and encouraging me to add in a few sets of Kegels after yoga. Then I do it again.

He’s looking at me. The ice in his eyes is everywhere now. It’s spreading. His entire expression is frigid despite how hot he is between my legs.

My body flutters around him. Seeing Mikhail Novikov hovering over top of me is almost enough to push me over the edge.

He slams into me, his weight pressing against my c**t. “Don’t move.”

He fixes me with a look that says he knows better. He knows what I’m up to.

Mikhail is a man who likes to be in control. Color me shocked.

“You’re the one who told me I shouldn’t be anyone’s pawn,” I remind him. Then I clench around him again.

I’m still holding tight when he jerks out of me. Before I can react or beg for forgiveness, Mikhail shoves my thighs wide and drops to his knees.

The moment his tongue delves into me, I realize the dangerous position I’m in. He could leave me like this, aching and needy. I’d probably go mad with wanting him. God, I bet he’d love that. Sick, cruel bastard.

“Is this your kink?” I rasp, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “Are you into edging until I combust?”

He doesn’t respond. It’s probably hard to talk with his lips wrapped around my c**t, his tongue flicking at every sensitive part of me until I’m grinding against his mouth.

This sure doesn’t feel like edging.