Chapter 92 One month with the Mafia boss: Day five
The Taiga Hunting Lodge, 200 km north of the city.
Snow is falling so hard it feels like the sky is trying to bury the world.
The forest is black and endless, pines bent under white weight, the only light a thin silver slice of moon.
Nyra stands on the porch in nothing but Kazimir’s oversized black coat and a pair of his thick wool socks.
Beneath the coat she is naked, skin still flushed and stinging from the sauna he fucked her in an hour ago.
Her breath clouds in front of her. Between her thighs she is swollen, aching, dripping with him.
Kazimir steps out behind her, shirtless despite the minus-twenty air, only black tactical pants and heavy boots.
Snowflakes melt instantly on his inked chest.
In one hand he holds a long, wicked hunting knife that catches the moonlight like a shard of ice.
In the other, a coil of crimson paracord.
He presses the flat of the blade under her chin, tilts her face up to his.
“Run,” he says, voice low, almost tender.
Nyra’s heart slams against her ribs. She has thirty seconds.
That was the rule he whispered against her cunt in the sauna, right before he made her come on his tongue until she blacked out.
She bolts.
The coat flaps open as she sprints into the trees.
Snow lashes her bare skin, needles of cold on her breasts, her belly, the raw lips of her pussy.
Branches claw at her thighs. Her feet sink ankle-deep, then knee-deep, but adrenaline and terror turn her into something feral.
Behind her, silence. Then the crunch of his boots, slow, deliberate, inevitable.
She runs until her lungs burn and her legs scream.
She ducks under low pines, slips on hidden ice, crashes through a frozen stream that soaks the socks and turns her feet numb.
The coat is long gone, lost somewhere in the dark.
She is naked now, snow crusting her lashes, nipples so hard they ache, cunt throbbing with every jarring step.
A low growl cuts through the storm, not an animal…him.
She whimpers and pushes harder.
She bursts into a small clearing ringed by ancient birches and collapses against the thickest trunk, chest heaving, thighs trembling.
Snowflakes melt on her overheated skin and run down like tears.
Then he is there.
Kazimir steps out of the darkness like a demon carved from winter itself.
Snow dusts his hair, his shoulders. The knife is still in his hand.
His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with the hunt.
Nyra tries to back away, but there is nowhere to go. The tree is at her spine.
He is on her in two strides.
The knife flashes cold steel kissing her throat, then lower, tracing the line of her collarbone, circling one aching nipple without breaking skin.
He watches her shake, watches gooseflesh race over her breasts.
“Caught,” he rasps.
He spins her, slams her front against the birch.
Bark bites into her breasts, her belly. The knife presses between her shoulder blades just enough pressure to remind her it’s there.
With his free hand he yanks her hips back, kicks her legs wide.
Snow pellets her exposed cunt like tiny teeth.
He doesn’t speak. Just frees himself, cock already rock-hard, flushed angry red from the cold and drives into her in one savage thrust.
Nyra screams into the tree. The stretch is brutal, perfect.
He is scalding inside her frozen body. He fucks her like punishment, like worship, hips snapping so hard her feet leave the ground with every thrust.
Snow flies around them.
The knife slides down her spine, tip tracing each vertebra, then lower, until the flat of the blade presses cold against her clit.
She jolts, clenches around him involuntarily.
Kazimir growls something filthy in Russian and sees the blunt edge against her swollen nerves never cutting, just the constant threat of it while he reams her cunt open.
She comes instantly, violently, squirting into the snow between her feet, body seizing so hard he has to pin her to the tree with his weight.
He doesn’t stop.
He pulls out only long enough to spin her again, lift her, impale her back onto his cock with her legs wrapped around his waist and her back scraping bark.
The knife is at her throat as he fucks up into her with short, vicious strokes.
“Look at me,” he snarls.
Her eyes fly open. Snowflakes melt on her lashes.
His face is inches from hers, beautiful, terrifying, completely unhinged.
“You’re mine in every season,” he says. “In blood, in snow, in fire. Say it.”
“Yours,” she sobs. “Only yours…”
He kisses her then, brutal and deep, teeth clashing, tasting pine and terror and her own cunt on his tongue from earlier.
The knife stays at her throat the whole time.
She comes again when he bites her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic tang mixing with snow on their tongues.
The orgasm rips through her so hard her vision tunnels.
Kazimir follows with a guttural roar, slamming so deep she feels him in her womb, flooding her with heat that feels obscene against the frozen night.
He holds her there, pinned to the tree, cock pulsing inside her until they’re both shaking.
Only then does he lower the knife.
He scoops her up legs still around his waist, arms limp and carries her back through the storm.
Snow fills their footprints almost instantly, erasing the evidence.
Back at the lodge he doesn’t bother with lights.
Just kicks the door shut, throws her onto the bearskin rug in front of the roaring fireplace, and spreads her out like an offering.
He eats her for hours, slow, reverent licks through the mess he left inside her, warming her frozen skin with his mouth, making her come again and again until she’s hoarse and begging in broken Russian she didn’t know she knew.
When the fire burns low and the storm finally quiets, he wraps her in the bearskin, pulls her on top of his chest, and lets her fall asleep to the steady thunder of his heartbeat.
Outside, dawn stains the snow rose-gold.
Day five is over.
But the taste of pine bark and blood still lingers on her tongue, and she knows she will never be cold again as long as he is chasing her.