I no longer hear the music the way I should.
I feel it only as a low, dirty vibration rising from the floor and crashing into me. Desire runs through my veins, hot and insistent, and everything I touch collapses into a single point—Duca. The world is still there—the tables, the faces, the lights—but everything seems slightly out of alignment, like a photograph taken with a shaking hand. I feel only him. I am hungry for him, for his hard body, for the heavy certainty I feel beneath my thighs, for the way his presence both calms me and sets me on fire at the same time.
Duca stands up abruptly.
The movement is decisive, clean. He has me in his arms before I understand what's happening, and my weight settles against his chest as if I were made for this exact place. One arm slides under my knees, the other wraps around my back—firm, steady.
"Sorry," he says calmly. "We're leaving."
It isn't an explanation. It's a conclusion.
I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist, a reflex born in a place my thoughts can no longer reach. I feel his heat, the muscles tightening beneath me, the way his body stays anchored in a reality I'm losing piece by piece.
I lower my mouth to his neck.
His skin is warm, salty. I lick him slowly, then more deliberately, unhurried, as if I have all the time in the world. A moan slips out of me without permission. Then another. The sounds tear free from my chest and I can't stop them.
Duca doesn't slow down.
His strides are long, determined, aimed straight for the exit. His jaw tightens, his breathing stays controlled, as if he's restraining something far more dangerous than me.
Nikolai laughs—a short, satisfied laugh, like the scene genuinely amuses him.
Mikhail is silent.
Artem is as absent as ever, his gaze lost somewhere beyond us, beyond the club, beyond this night.
Yelena is wrapped around a bodyguard, her legs locked around him, her head thrown back in bright, open laughter. She lifts her glass lightly in a lazy gesture, like a toast not meant for us.
Gaston follows in silence.
I don't see him, but I feel his presence—constant, heavy, like a shadow that knows exactly where it needs to be.
I don't look back.
My mouth stays on Duca's neck, my moans blending into the noise of the club. I feel him tighten his hold on me just a little— a silent warning, a promise.
The exit draws closer.
The air already feels different there, colder, more real. But I'm still here, in his arms, my body pressed to his, the world hanging by a thin thread.
The car swallows us with a dull sound. The door shuts, and the club is left behind like a filthy dream.
Gaston is driving, smooth and unbothered. I hear the partition window slide up between us and him.
The darkness inside hits me differently—tighter, more intimate. His scent is everywhere. Skin, smoke, something metallic. I lose my patience instantly.
I grind against him without thinking. A low, insistent, animal movement. My body searches for him, claims him. My thighs clamp around his, and need surges through me in brutal, hungry waves. I feel him hard beneath me, and the sensation tears away whatever control I had left.
"Alla," he murmurs, his voice rougher than before. "Stay."
I don't.
I press my forehead to his neck, breathing in broken gasps, rubbing my lips against his skin as if I want to crawl beneath it. My hands search for his shoulders, his chest, pulling him toward me like the space between us is an offense.
"Please," slips out of me—shameless, shapeless.
He catches my wrists. Firm. Controlled. Not painful, but unmovable.
"Easy," he says. "Breathe with me. You're here. You're safe."
I hate him for his calm.
I want him for it.
I writhe for a moment, frustrated, starving, and he pulls me closer—not to give me what I'm asking for, but to hold me. His palm cups the back of my neck, his fingers tracing slow circles down my spine, anchoring me.
"Not now, Alla," he says again, lower. "Not like this."
My breathing is chaotic. The desire doesn't vanish, but it begins to gather, to burn under my skin, forced into control by his strength.
A sigh slips out of me, sounding like a prayer.
"It hurts," I tell him, my voice broken. "It hurts how much I want you."
The words aren't pretty. They're true. They tear out of my chest like a wounded animal, and my body backs them up, rubbing against his with a desperation that no longer knows how to hide. I feel him tense, feel the fight inside him turn visible—silent, dangerous.
Duca closes his eyes for a second.
One single second too long.
When he opens them, they're burning.
He grips the back of my neck and kisses me. It isn't gentle, and it doesn't ask permission. It's possessive, deep, a warning. His mouth claims mine, crushes it, and the bite comes without hesitation. I taste metal on my tongue—blood—a sharp pain that only ignites me further. I don't pull away. I chase him. I want him all the way to the end.
His breathing fractures into the kiss, his control splintering into small, deliberate breaks. One hand stays at my nape, holding me there, anchoring me, while the other slides down slowly, with intention—just enough to steal my breath and make my knees give.
His hand moves over my thighs, slow, deliberate, as if he's teaching my body its limits all over again. He doesn't rush anything. He touches me with quiet mastery, his fingers gripping my flesh just hard enough to leave warmth behind, memories that will bloom later on my skin. He keeps my thighs spread between his, possessive, like a wordless declaration.
He whispers my name near my neck, then bites me again, this time there.
I burn.
I tighten around him, trembling, the sounds that escape me low and uncontrolled, closer to crying than anything else. I feel him everywhere without seeing him, like a dark promise that has me in its grip and won't let go.
"Like this," he says near my ear, his voice low, rough. "You're so beautiful, little love."
His hand finds my center through the thin fabric of my panties, and the fire flares instantly—fierce and certain, a flame that consumes me. I burn silently, breath cut short, my body folding in on itself with need.
"Duca," I whisper, right there, not recognizing my own voice. "There. Please. It feels so good."
His breathing stops for a fraction of a second. His palm stays where it is, heavy, unyielding.
"I know," he says quietly. "I feel you so well. I'd devour you if I could."
I clutch the fabric of his coat, desperate.
"More," I ask, without shame.
He touches me firmly, and it's everything I've ever wanted. The air leaves my chest. My breathing shatters into short, broken pieces, and the world contracts until there's nothing left but that touch holding me suspended, caught between life and death.
"More," I ask again.
I hear him draw in a deep breath, then he pushes my panties aside and rubs me raw, skin against skin.
"Little love," he whispers, and then he bites me again, hard enough to draw blood.
His words rush to my head like a burning wave. The delirium makes me dizzy, weakens my knees. I press my forehead to his shoulder, my mouth open, searching for air, and he doesn't let me fall. He keeps me there, on the edge, until the trembling turns into madness and I cry out in the claws of my very first orgasm.
I collapse against him like a rag doll—boneless, defenseless—my body spilling over his in slow waves. The echo still touches me—remnants of the orgasm ripple through my thighs, my stomach, making me twitch involuntarily, as if the fire hasn't yet understood that it's gone out. My breathing is broken, uneven, my chest rising in sharp pulls, searching for air like it's something new.
My eyes fill without warning. Tears spill down my cheeks, warm, uncontrolled, mixed with an astonishment that hurts almost as much as the desire did before.
He sees them immediately.
He doesn't say anything. He only leans in far enough to gather them with his mouth, one by one, his tongue tracing the salty path of my skin, the gesture so intimate it breaks me open all over again.
"We're not crying, little love," he murmurs. "Not now."
I swallow hard. My voice comes out thin, stripped of all defense.
"I didn't know…" I whisper. "I didn't know it could be like this. I didn't know… I've never tried."
I feel him tense beneath me—not brutally, not dangerously, but attentively.
"You've never tried?" he asks, the shock in his voice real.
I lift my gaze to him, still trembling.
"No."
A pause. A heavy second.
"You're a virgin?" he asks, lower now.
I don't answer right away. I just nod, small, almost imperceptible, and the truth falls between us with a new kind of weight.
His hand tightens on my back, broad and steady.
"You were made for me," he says quietly, without forcing the words. "Don't be afraid. Never be afraid of me."
My head feels heavy, the edges of the world swaying—alcohol, traces of drugs, the still-living echo in my body—and he senses it before I can admit it. He lifts my chin just enough to catch my eyes, then settles my head against his shoulder, decisive and gentle, like something meant to be protected.
"Sleep, little love," he murmurs. "You're safe with me."
I don't resist. I let myself be gathered into his arms, and the darkness turns soft, welcoming. The car glides through the streets of Moscow, Gaston driving, the city lights flowing past us like distant, dirty dreams.
Still dazed, my thoughts loose and undone, I feel as though I'm in a heaven I never knew I was allowed to touch. In the arms of the man who stole me from a life of nothing, for the very first time—even like this, blurred and unsteady—hope begins to form that maybe, just maybe, a future exists.