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And I let her go. Okay, that’s not quite fair. She “got away.” My bruised fucking balls are certainly the main reason for that.
Okay, if we want to talk “Carmine-adjacent”, I mean… Ding ding fucking ding.
Balls: still swollen and sore. Dick: still fucking hard.
A billboard in Times Square-worthy pussy. The Cindy fucking Crawford of pussies.
Firstly, where the fuck is my underwear.
Whenever I am in the same room as him, however, there’s a strange sensation that always pools inside me. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re around the person you lost your virginity to. Or, probably the person you lost your virginity to, and they don’t know it.
“Kyle?” I frown. “I think? And she’s Ky-lie?” Brooklyn makes a face. “I think they’re his date.” She frowns. “Which one?” “Yes.”
“Consider ‘you can fuck off now’ the polite version. Mine will be considerably less cordial. Walk the fuck away, cunt.”
I’m early. Which is…horrifying.
“I don’t know who you are,” I hiss. “What if—” His head tips to the side. “Sure you do. And If I die…” He lifts a shoulder. “Then I’ll haunt the fuck out of you.”
Unfortunately, the lack of sleep has left me exhausted and fueled my paranoia that Nero is lurking behind every door, waiting to grab me. Under my bed. In the shower. But he's not. I refuse to admit how insanely disappointing that is in a super fucked up way.
I get it: he’s metaphorically sucking my dick to pump me up to his idea. I’m sure he pulled the same shit with Marko. But I’m no longer listening. All I’m thinking about is her, and how she’s mine. No one else’s. No one.
Brooklyn is going off about Prince Charming from Cinderella and his obvious foot fetish. “Not to mention how fucking stupid he is. I mean he spent the whole night dancing with her, and he doesn’t just, like, recognize her fucking face?”
“You should lock your windows,” I murmur. “Or don’t. I like the invitation.”
He also reminded me of my safe word: Vanquish. But it came with a warning: use it, and it’s not just tonight that’s over. It’s all of it, permanently. And that’s how I know I’ve already drunk the Kool-Aid. Because the man literally gave me a way out. Forever. And I’m still here.
I slam my forearm into him, and when his grip loosens, my hand moves on its own, rearing back and then slapping him. For one silent second, horror rushes into my face, and my eyes go wide. Then heat blooms across my cheek, utterly stunning me. He just slapped me back. …and I didn’t hate it.
“Hey, Milena…” I blink, yanking my gaze to Brooklyn. “Huh?” “You know how I ask you how to say things in Russian all the time?” I arch a brow. “Yeah?” “How do you say big dick energy?” I roll my eyes as Brooklyn and Val crack up. “I legit almost said loud and KIR instead of loud and clear,” Val groans. “What the fuck.” “He’s so fucking hot,” Brooklyn sighs. “Like, insanely, ridiculously, illegally—”
“Shouldn’t our fantasies maybe switch to non-violent men? Like, guys who paint, and grow flowers, maybe raise ducks?” Val frowns. “Uh, that doesn’t sound nearly as fucking hot as a Bratva Crime Boss?” “Pakhan,” I toss back. “The Russian is Pakhan.” “Well, that motherfucker is definitely Pakhan.”
The Russians have two groups, because they’re fucking Russian and of course they do.
Surprise! It’s me and my trailer full of hangups.
“For the fucking record,” I growl, leaning close, “this is what is called asking for it.”
The second I say it, my mouth clamps shut. Like, what the FUCK, self.
I glare at him. He grins.
He pauses for a moment, eyeing me like he’s trying to decide if he’s going to humor me or flip me over and fuck me with…or without…my consent. I mean, he’s got it, but, you know.
Sudden twisting pain lances through my chest, hurting so badly that for a second, I think I’ve actually been shot, or stabbed, and that somehow I missed it. But it’s no weapon or bullet. Just his words, eviscerating me and carving my heart from my chest. Seeing the man I’ve fallen in love with—twice—looking me right in the eye and telling me in the plainest terms possible that he hates me.
