As You Wish, Zolotse

Kira's pov

The doors swung open hours later.  

Two servants wheeled him in, a man slumped in a chair that looked more like a throne, his body draped in black silk that did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders. His head lolled to the side, his hands lay limp on the armrests and his eyes were half-lidded, distant and lost.  

Poor little Grisha.  

The servants didn't even look at me. They parked him in the center of the suite, bowed with barely concealed contempt, and left without a word.  

Then the door clicked shut, sealing my fate with finality.  

And I was alone with my husband.  

I studied him from across the room. His hair was dark as midnight, tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. His lips, full, pink, sinful, parted slightly, as if he was lost in some distant dream.  

He was beautiful.  

No. I shook myself. He was crippled. Useless. A burden everyone mocked. I was supposed to pity him, not…  

But his eyes flicked up.  

And I forgot how to breathe.  

There was something in that gaze. Something hungry. Something that burned right through my chest and settled low in my belly. It was desire. Raw and unfiltered. It sent shocks straight to my core, made my thighs clench, made my heart stutter for reasons that had nothing to do with my condition.  

Ridiculous. I laughed at myself. What did he know about desire? He was crippled and impotent. Everyone said so.  

I walked toward him as my heels clicked against the marble floor. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched me with those dark, dangerous eyes.  

“Let me help you,” I said softly. “You must be exhausted.”  

I reached for his jacket. He stiffened, barely perceptible, but I ignored it. Pity swelled in my chest. This man had been wheeled into his own wedding night like cargo. Everyone mocked him. Everyone dismissed him. Even his own servants.  

I would be different.  

“I'm going to get you cleaned up,” I told him. “Get you ready for bed. It's the least I can do as your wife.”  

Something flickered in his eyes. Warning? Amusement? I couldn't tell.  

I busied myself with the washbasin. Warm water, a soft cloth. I brought it to him, I made sure my hands were gentle, and my touch really careful.  

“Don't,” he said.  

His voice hit me like a punch. Deep, rich Russian velvet wrapped in steel. It was the voice of a man who commanded armies, not…  

I froze. “You can speak?”  

“Don't bother with me.” His accent was thick with his words clipped. “You don't have to do this.”  

“Of course I do.” I set the basin down, my jaw set stubbornly. “I'm your wife. It's my duty.”  

His eyes darkened. “Kira…”  

But I was already reaching for his trousers.  

“Let me just…”  

“Stop.”  

His hand shot out. Fast and brutally strong as he grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron, and I gasped…  

But I'd already pulled.  

The fabric gave way and his trousers pooled around his ankles.  

My eyes dropped, or more like popped open.  

Oh.  

My breath caught and my face flushed as my entire body went molten.  

There, straining against his black boxer briefs, was a bulge. Massive, thick and impossible to ignore. It pulsed against the fabric, heavy and hard and so impossibly large that I couldn't tear my gaze away.  

“But you're…” My voice cracked. “They said you were…”  

I yanked my hand back. My body jerked upright, and then…  

He stood.  

I stumbled backward, my heart slamming against my ribs. My eyes went wide and my mouth was left hanging open.  

He actually did stand!  

Xander Volkov rose from that wheelchair like a predator unfolding from the shadows. He was tall, so tall, his body chiseled like a Greek god carved from marble. Broad shoulders. Ridged abs. Arms corded with muscle. His chest was a work of art, his hips narrow and his thighs like tree trunks.  

And that unmistakable hardness still strained against the fabric, thick and heavy, a silent promise of everything the rumors had lied about.  

“Kira.”  

His voice was a low rumble, thick with desire and dark warning. He stepped toward me, and I backed away until my spine hit the wall.  

“You should have listened.” His hand slammed against the wall beside my head, caging me in. “I tried to warn you.”  

“You…you're not crippled.” My voice was barely a whisper. “You can walk.”  

“I can do a lot more than walk.” His eyes burned into mine. “And you still have a choice.”  

His face was so close I could feel his breath on my lips. He was stunning. Dark brows, sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut stone. And those eyes, storm-gray, intense and devouring me whole.  

“Walk away,” he said, his voice dipping lower. “Forget the contract. Forget this ever happened. I'll let you go. You can have your freedom.”  

His hand came up as his thumb brushed my cheek. Gentle and so tender. So at odds with the raw power radiating off him.  

“Or you stay,” he continued, “and you're mine. My wife. My partner. I'll cherish you, protect you. Worship every inch of your body until you forget your own name.”  

His eyes dropped to my lips. “But once I start, there's no going back. It's done and you'll belong to me.”  

I should have run.  

I should have screamed, pushed him away and grabbed the door then flee into the night.  

But the warning in his voice, the danger, sent a thrill straight to my core. It excited me, made me wet. Made me want to see what this man could do.  

He hadn't looked down at my curves. Hadn't sneered at my weight. He looked at my eyes, my face, like I was the most precious thing he'd ever seen.  

Then I kissed him boldly.  

My mouth crashed against his, desperate, hungry and so mine. He groaned into my lips, his hands finding my waist, dragging me against his body as that hard, heavy length pressed into my stomach, hot, insistent, and I moaned.  

His fingers found the zipper of my dress. He pulled it down in one slow, deliberate motion, the fabric whispering against my skin before it pooled at my feet.  

“God,” he breathed, pulling back just long enough to look at me. “You're beautiful.”  

I was wearing nothing but lace. And he devoured me with his eyes, lingering, teasing, making me feel every second of his attention like a physical touch.  

Then he bent, picked up the white wedding dress from the floor, and held it out to me.  

“Put it back on,” he said, voice low and rough with something darker. “I want my bride in her dress while I ruin her. For the kink of it. For the way it will look when I make you come in white.”  

My breath hitched. Heat flooded my cheeks, but I took the dress. He helped me step back into it, guiding the fabric up over my hips, over the lace, until the soft silk settled against my skin again. He zipped it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing my spine the whole way.  

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Now you look like what you are. My wife. My untouched little bride about to be thoroughly claimed.”  

His hands skimmed my sides through the dress, never quite giving me what I suddenly craved. He traced the edge of the neckline, fingertips light as a promise, circling but never claiming. He lifted me like I weighed nothing, carrying me to the bed and laying me down like I was made of glass, the full skirt of the wedding dress spreading out around us.  

“Last chance,” he whispered, his mouth trailing down my throat, open and hot, stopping just short of where I wanted him. “Say the word, and I stop.”  

I pulled him down by his hair. “Don't you dare stop.”  

His laugh was dark, sinful. “As you wish, zolotse.”  

He settled between my thighs, pushing the heavy layers of white silk up and out of the way, but he didn't rush. His mouth found the soft skin of my inner thigh, kissing, nipping, lingering until I trembled. He breathed against the lace covering me, warm and deliberate, the heat of him so close it made me ache.  

“Patience,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “I want you shaking first.”  

His tongue traced the edge of the fabric, slow and maddening. He teased the sensitive skin just above where I needed him most, lips brushing, teeth grazing, never quite giving in. My hips lifted without permission. He chuckled low against me, the sound vibrating through every nerve.  

“So eager already.” His hands pinned my thighs open, holding me still while he continued the torment, kissing higher, then lower, breathing against the damp lace until I was panting. “Look at you. Already so wet for me. And still in your wedding dress.”  

I whimpered, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Xander…please.”  

“Not yet.” He dragged the lace aside with agonizing care, exposing me to the cool air and the heat of his gaze. He didn't dive in. He looked. He admired. Then he leaned in and pressed the softest, most devastating kiss right against my center, barely there, a promise more than a touch.  

My back arched. A broken sound escaped me.  

He did it again, slower, deeper, still holding back, still teasing, letting the tip of his tongue glide once, just once, before pulling away to kiss the soft crease of my thigh.  

“I could do this for hours,” he whispered against my skin. “Make you beg. Make you forget every name but mine. All while you wear this dress.”  

He returned, mouth open, warm, and finally settled between my legs properly, kneeling as if in worship. His broad shoulders forced my thighs wider. His hands slid under me, lifting me closer to his mouth, the white silk of my wedding dress framing everything.  

“Mine,” he growled softly, the word vibrating against me.  

And then he gave me what I'd been dying for, his mouth, hot and hungry, beginning the slow, deliberate worship he'd promised.