Chapter 167 Chapter 167 Just Sex
My father and Illia have Constantine. I dropped him off with them before I went out for my run. I ran for two hours, pushing myself harder than usual, trying to outrun the noise in my head, to sweat out the confusion, the pull I refuse to name. By the time I came back, my lungs burned and my legs felt like they might give out.
I checked on them before heading to shower. The three of them were in the library, flipping through old books. Constantine’s face lit up at the chess set—his excitement was instant, contagious. They were already setting up pieces, arguing over who got which color. My father waved me off, telling me to go shower in peace.
It’s true—Constantine is a big boy now. He can do so many things on his own, more than I sometimes give him credit for. But he’s still stuck to me in ways I don’t know how to loosen. The only real alone time I get is when he’s asleep, and even then, most nights he ends up curled beside me.
I step into the shower and brace my hand against the cool marble wall as the hot water pours over me. It washes away the sweat, the tension, the frustration clinging to my skin. The antique tub creaks softly beneath my shifting weight, steam curling up around me.
My hand drifts down my stomach. I exhale slowly, separating my folds, rubbing my clit in slow, deliberate circles. Fuck—I can’t stop it. The images come anyway, uninvited and relentless.
Ivan’s dark eyes flash first, intense and consuming. His luscious lips, the way they move when he speaks, when he lies. The tattoos that stretch from his neck all the way down to his feet, every inch of him marked, dangerous. And his cock—God—heavy, thick. My fingers slide inside me, and I’m already pulsing, already too far gone as I curl them, brushing that spot, tapping it gently, letting the pressure build.
In my mind, his mouth trails down my neck, lingering, teasing, before moving lower—over my nipples, my stomach—taking his time like he’s savoring every inch of me. Then he’s there, between my legs, his face buried, his tongue sliding between my folds, invading me, owning me.
“Fuck!” I moan.
The shower curtain jerks open.
I drop my leg and spin so fast I almost slip, my heart slamming into my ribs. For a split second, my entire life flashes before my eyes, panic hitting me hard. I think—how the hell did my son get back in here?
But it’s not Constantine.
It’s Ivan.
I cover myself instinctively, like he hasn’t already seen every inch of me from every possible angle.
“What are you doing in here? Get out, Ivan,” I snap.
“The real question is—what were you doing?” he grins, smug and knowing, like he can see straight through me, like he knows exactly what I was imagining.
Idiot.
I should be fantasizing about anyone but him.
Ivan is only wearing board shorts. Without breaking eye contact, he slides them down with ease, stepping into the tub like this is inevitable. He presses me back against the cold marble wall, pinning me there with both hands.
Every sense of self-preservation flies out the fucking window.
My arms wrap around him, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. His hands slide down, gripping my ass, hard, possessive. My skin ignites under his touch, heat rushing through me so fast it’s dizzying. I can feel every inch of him, every muscle.
Ivan grunts as he lifts me, my legs instinctively spreading and wrapping around his waist.
“I’ve missed you,” he moans, his voice rough, strained, as he lines himself up and slides inside me.
The stretch burns. He’s too much, too sudden, and yet not enough all at once. He moves slowly at first, inch by inch, he knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s draggs it out on purpose.
He keeps talking—empty words, promises I’ve heard before, words that mean nothing.
“Shut up before I change my mind.”
I slap my hand over his mouth, cutting him off, refusing to let him ruin this with lies.
I let him fuck me into oblivion.
His thrusts grow harder, faster. His mouth finds my skin again—kissing, licking, biting—each sensation stacking on top of the next until I can barely think. My body is overwhelmed, completely taken over by him, by the heat, by the pressure building inside me.
My pussy clenches around him, pulsing, gripping him like it doesn’t want to let go. Every time he pulls back, I feel it—emptiness—before he slams back in, filling me again.
Oh God—he’s fucking me raw.
Damn it. I’m going to need to get tested now.
Stupid girl. Why the fuck are you doing this?
Because I’m starved. Because I’m weak. Because it’s him.
His skin is smooth under my fingertips. I drag my hands over his shoulders, up into his hair, grabbing it tight as he thrusts into me like a madman. The marble behind me is cold and slick, sending goosebumps racing across my skin, the contrast only making everything more intense.
“Fuck me—right there!” I moan, my voice breaking.
My head falls back, eyes locking onto the ceiling as the first orgasm hits. My body jerks, twitching in his arms, waves crashing through me, stealing my breath.
But Ivan doesn’t stop.
He keeps going, relentless, pounding into me, each grunt, each movement dragging me closer again. The pressure builds faster this time—harder, sharper, more consuming.
“Give me one more, baby,” his voice deep, wrecking me completely.
It’s like something snaps inside me.
Everything I built—every wall, every ounce of resistance—is gone. He’s inside me in every way that matters, and I hate how easily I let him back in. I hate that I would give him whatever the fuck he wants in this moment.
I can’t even remember why I’m mad at him.
My mind is gone—reduced to nothing but sensation and need. Ivan grinds into me harder, deeper, and it sends me spiraling again, another orgasm ripping through me, stronger than the first.
This time, he lets go too.
I feel it—every part of him tightening, swelling, before he spills inside me, heat flooding through me, filling me completely.
“I love you,” he says, breathless, his eyes locked on mine.
The words hit differently than everything else—and not in a good way.
“I don’t believe your fucking lies anymore,” I snap, my voice cold despite the way my body still trembles. “Go lie to someone else.”
Ivan sets me down carefully, like I might break, his hands coming up to cup my face with a softness that feels almost foreign. For a moment, I see it—the truth in his expression, the sincerity he never seems able to back up with action.
He closes his eyes, and I watch as tears gather at the corners, slipping down his face.
It should mean something.
It’s going to take more than that.
I feel nothing for him right now—no sympathy, no empathy. Just the lingering heat of what we did and the cold certainty that it changes nothing.