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She opens her mouth for a sharp reply, but I push inside her in one slow, deep stroke.

Whatever she was going to say turns into a long, broken moan.

Fuck. Entering her feels like coming home. She’s clenching around me like a glove. I have to lock every muscle in my body to keep from coming on the spot.

It’s been four years. Four years of nothing but my own hand and memories of her. I’m not about to embarrass myself like a teenager.

“Easy, plamya,” I rasp, staying buried deep inside her. “I’ve got you.”

I start moving, slow, deliberate rolls of my hips, grinding against her with every thrust. She arches beneath me, nails digging into my back.

“That’s it… feel how deep I am? This pussy still remembers who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”

Her moan is my answer.

I pick up the pace, angling my hips until I hit that spot that makes her cry out. I feel her tighten around me, trembling.

“Come for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

She does, hard. Her walls flutter and squeeze as she comes with my name on her lips. I keep thrusting through it, drawing it out, teeth gritted against the urge to lose control.

I don’t stop. I flip her onto her stomach, pull her hips up, and slide back in from behind. Deeper this time. Harder. She pushes back against me, greedy for more.

“Good girl,” I growl. “Give me another one.”

It doesn’t take long. I reach around, fingers finding her clit, and she shatters again, sobbing into the sheets.

Only then do I let myself go.

I flip her onto her back again so I can see her face. I drive into her hard and fast, no more restraint. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper.

“Mine,” I groan against her mouth. “You’re fucking mine, Rosie.”

I come with a deep, guttural sound, burying myself to the hilt as I spill inside her. The pleasure is blinding, years of pent-up need pouring out of me.

I collapse over her, careful not to crush her, and press my forehead to hers. Our breathing is ragged, bodies slick with sweat.

After a moment of catching my breath, I pull out of her and pull her close, wrapping my arms around her and pressing her against my chest. For a long moment we stay like that, silent, just breathing each other in.

When I finally look down, she’s already asleep, lashes resting against her cheeks, lips slightly parted, completely relaxed in my arms. Something tight in my chest loosens at the sight.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Past midnight. My men are waiting.

I press a slow kiss to her forehead, careful not to wake her, then gently slip out of bed. I cover her with the blanket, tucking it around her shoulders.

For a second I just stand there, staring at her curled up in my bed, exactly where she belongs.

I dress quickly, holster my gun, and steal one last glance at her before I leave the room.

The drive back to the club is short. I take the private elevator straight down to the basement.

The air down here is filled with the stink of blood mixed with piss, sweat, and fear.

Two men hang from chains bolted to the ceiling, wrists bound above their heads, feet barely touching the concrete floor. One is already dead weight, head lolling, blood dripping steadily from multiple wounds. The other is still conscious, breathing hard, face bruised and swollen, one eye almost shut.

Viktor stands in front of the conscious one, arms crossed, looking bored. Two of my other men linger nearby.

“I see you started without me,” I say, voice flat.