Page 18 of Bred By the Savage Bidder
Her legs hook around my waist instinctively, and I tighten my grip on her ass, kneading the firm flesh as I walk. The port lights flicker through the tall windows we pass, but I don't look. All I see is her. Blonde hair spilling over my shoulder, lips swollen from the kiss, those sharp green eyes half-lidded but still calculating, still reading me even now.
"You said you wanted to celebrate properly," I murmur against her throat, nipping at the pulse point there.
"Da," she breathes, the Russian syllable rolling off her tongue like a challenge. Her fingers thread into my hair and tug, hard enough to sting, and it pulls a growl from my chest. "Show me, Serik. I want all of it."
I shoulder the bedroom door open and kick it shut behind us. The room is dim, lit only by the low glow of the port and water below, but I don't need light. I know every inch of this space, and I know every inch of her, too. I set her on the edge of the bed and step back just long enough to strip off my shirt, watching her watch me. Her gaze drags over my chest, my arms, the old scarsfrom a life that taught me control, and I see the moment her pupils blow wide.
She reaches for me immediately, hands sliding up my abdomen, nails grazing skin. "Come here."
I don't obey right away. Instead, I drop to my knees between her spread thighs, hooking my fingers into the waistband of her thing and dragging it down slowly. She's already wet. I can smell it, see the slick shine on her inner thighs. I press my mouth to the inside of one knee, then higher, tasting salt and her.
"Serik—" Her voice cracks as I lick a slow stripe up her slit, savoring the way she jolts. I spread her open with my thumbs, splaying my hands over her to keep her in place, and feast. My tongue circles her clit before dipping inside her, fucking her in shallow thrusts. She tastes like sin and victory, like the only thing I've ever wanted this badly. Her hips buck against my face, and I use my elbows to pin her in place while my hands keep her spread for me.
"Fuck, you're soaked for me already," I growl against her pussy. "This greedy little cunt knows who it belongs to now. Say it."
"You," she gasps, fingers tightening in my hair. "Serik—please—"
I suck her clit hard, dipping two fingers into her and curling them. She comes with a sharp cry, clenching around me like a vice. I don't stop, licking her through it until she's shaking and oversensitive, pushing at my shoulders. Only then do I rise, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I shed the rest of my clothes. My cock is heavy, aching, leaking at the tip from how badly I need her.
She sits up, eyes dark as she strips off her dress and pulls me down onto the bed with her. We tumble together, mouthscrashing, her legs wrapping around me again. I roll us so she's on top, hands gripping her hips as she sinks down onto my cock in one smooth glide. The tight, wet heat of her envelops me completely, and I groan, head falling back against the pillows.
"God, Juliette." I thrust up into her, watching her tits bounce with every movement. She rides me hard, hands braced on calves as she leans back, hair wild around her shoulders. The sight of her flushed, powerful, taking what she wants, unravels me faster than anything ever has.
She leans forward, biting my lower lip as she grinds her clit against me. "Harder. I want to feel you tomorrow when I work on the contracts."
I flip us again without pulling out, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other grips her thigh, spreading her wider. I drive into her deep and relentless, the wet slap of our bodies filling the room. Every thrust claims her, fills her, and the thought of her belly rounding with my child later makes me fuck her even harder.
"You're going to take all of it," I rasp, leaning down to suck a mark into her neck. "Every drop. Again and again until there's no question who you belong to."
"Yes—Serik—fuck—" She arches up to meet me, nails digging into my back as she comes a second time, pulsing around my cock so perfectly I can't hold back. I bury myself to the hilt and spill deep inside her, groaning her name like a vow, hips jerking as I empty everything I have.
We’re locked together, breathing ragged, sweat-slicked. I release her wrists and kiss her slowly, tenderly now, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. She smiles up at me and traces the edge of my jaw.
"This is what choosing feels like," she whispers. “This is exactly what I want.”
I pull her closer, still buried inside her, and roll us onto our sides. "Every night. Every morning. As long as you want it."
She clenches around me playfully, already stirring again. "Then don't stop now."
Epilogue
Juliette
My mother does up the back of my dress, and this time, nobody chose it but me.
That's the thought I keep returning to, standing in front of the mirror in a room at the top of Rovin's house while the garden fills with Mostovoi’s below. The first dress arrived laid out on my bed before I was told what it was for. Champagne silk, modest, ready for export, selected by a man in an office and approved by my mother down a phone line from Lyon. I wore it to be sold.
This one I found myself. Ivory, clean lines, a back that's mine to bare because I decided it should be. I stood in three boutiques and tried on every dress until I found the one that felt right.
"There," Maman says softly, smoothing the fabric at my shoulders. Her eyes are wet even though she's pretending they aren't, but she's here, in the room, with her hands on the actual dress instead of approving a picture of one. Grand-mère recovered enough to release her, and she flew in three days ago and has not stopped looking at me like she's seeing a stranger she helped make since. "Juliette. Tu es magnifique."
"I had a good base to start with," I tell her, which is as close as we get, the two of us, to saying the thing. She laughs, wet and quiet, and squeezes my arms, and it's more than I expected and less than I'll ever stop wanting, and I've made my peace with it.
There's a knock, and then my father is in the doorway, and the temperature in the room drops three degrees on instinct alone.
Vladim Koralev is wearing his best suit and his negotiating face, the careful one, and I know before he opens his mouth what he's come to collect.
"They'll be ready for us soon," he says. In English. The language of charm. "I should know where to stand. When to take your arm."
