The Bride Of The Devil

Chapter 40: In The Devil’s Arms

Ivan leaned in.

His lips brushed the bare slope of her back—soft, reverent. Each kiss he left behind felt like an apology. A plea. A memory he didn’t want to lose.

Lydia shivered beneath his mouth, her breath unsteady. She didn’t stop him. Her fingers clutched at the edge of the piano bench, holding on to the moment like it might slip away if she moved too fast.

When he rose again, his hands cupped her face gently, as if she were something fragile. Something he didn’t deserve to touch. But she leaned into his palms, her eyes glassy.

"I need you," he whispered hoarsely.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Only a quiet nod.

He lifted her in his arms—careful, almost desperate—and carried her to the velvet chaise in the corner of the lounge. The room was still bathed in soft afternoon light, and everything around them felt distant. Unimportant.

He laid her down, his body following hers.

His mouth found hers again, and this time, it wasn’t just need. It was everything. Every unsaid thing. Every ache and longing wrapped into the shape of a kiss.

His hands moved over her slowly, relearning the curve of her waist, the dip of her hips, the warmth of her skin. He undressed her with patience, with reverence—his eyes never leaving hers, not even when he bared her completely.

She trembled beneath him, not from fear, but from the weight of what was unfolding.

When his clothes joined hers on the floor, and he hovered above her—naked and vulnerable—there was no trace of the cold, unreadable man she once feared. Only Ivan. Only a man who looked at her like she was something he’d been waiting his whole life to hold.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard.

"You can still walk away," he said, voice rough with restraint. "Say the word, and I’ll stop."

Lydia reached up and cradled his cheek. "I don’t want to walk away."

His eyes burned as he kissed her again—deeper, slower, his hips settling between hers.

Her hand moved between them, fingers brushing just above his lower abdomen. She paused, her breath catching, cheeks flushed.

"Can I... touch you?" she whispered, her voice trembling with curiosity.

Ivan’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, voice thick. "Yes. Please."

Her hand moved lower, tentative at first, until her fingers wrapped around him. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, his body jolting slightly at the contact. She explored him gently, fascinated by the feel of him, the way he reacted to her touch. Her fingers curled more confidently, and he groaned softly, his forehead pressed to hers, barely holding himself together.

He kissed her again—harder this time—his control unraveling.

He entered her in one careful push, his breath stuttering against her mouth as she gasped softly. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his back, pulling him closer.

They moved slowly at first, their bodies learning each other in a language only they understood. His hand cradled the back of her head, his lips murmuring against her skin—her shoulder, her jaw, her chest.

Her moans were soft, breathy, helpless. Every thrust sent a shiver through her, pleasure and emotion blending into something deeper.

And then, somewhere in the middle of it all, Lydia whispered it.

"I love you."

It slipped out like a prayer, like a confession she hadn’t meant to say out loud—but needed to.

Ivan froze for just a moment.

Then his mouth crashed into hers, a kiss full of everything he couldn’t say. His rhythm changed—deeper, more desperate, like he was trying to bury himself inside her, hold on to the one truth neither of them could run from.

His lips moved to her ear, his voice breaking as he spoke.

"You shouldn’t... but God, I need you to."

She cupped his face again, pulling him down until their foreheads touched.

"I do," she whispered. "I love you, Ivan."

He let out a shaky breath—then drove into her again, harder now, unable to hold back.

Her moans grew louder, needier, as he began to thrust deeper into her. She couldn’t think anymore—her mind had gone hazy, her body responding instinctively to every grind of his hips. It felt like heaven, like being swept into a place where nothing else existed but the rhythm of their bodies, the heat of his breath, and the sound of his name slipping from her lips again and again.

"Ivan... Ivan..."

Her voice trembled each time she moaned it, helpless and breathless.

He could see her slipping, unraveling right beneath him—lost in the intensity of it all.

He kissed down the valley between her breasts, soft and slow, and then his mouth took one of her nipples, suckling gently before trailing kisses higher, up the curve of her breast, across her collarbone, until he reached her neck.

"Come back to me," he murmured against her throat, his thrusts still steady, deep, almost too much.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and she kissed his neck open-mouthed, hot and eager. Her lips found the spot just beneath his jaw and she bit him gently, her teeth grazing his skin as she whimpered.

He groaned, a low, primal sound, and buried himself deeper inside her. "You’re going to ruin me," he growled against her skin.

Lydia arched beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in.

"I want to," she whispered, her voice raw. "Ruin me too."

He didn’t hold back after that.

His thrusts grew rougher, more desperate—driving into her again and again as the chaise rocked beneath them. Their bodies moved together in a frantic rhythm, sweat clinging to their skin. Her nails raked down his back, and he moaned into her neck, grinding against the deepest parts of her.

She was falling apart beneath him, her moans becoming broken gasps as her climax built and built—until it finally tore through her with a sharp cry, her body tightening around him.

The way she clutched him, how her lips trembled as she whispered his name, pushed him over the edge.

He came with a shudder, holding her tightly, his hips pressed deep inside her as he spilled into her with a groan.

It was surrender.

He collapsed against her, still inside her, both of them gasping for breath. Her hands threaded through his damp hair, holding him close, grounding them in the silence that followed.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because they didn’t need to.

His heart thudded against hers, steady, real.

And in that quiet, tangled moment, something between them changed.

Something fragile, and unspoken, became real.