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He releases my wrist just to close his hand around my throat from behind. The grip is firm enough that I go to my tiptoes, but it’s not meant to steal my breath. This is a grip of control. So I know exactly who’s in charge of this situation. His other hand drifts over my hip, leaving goosebumps in its wake, then disappears between my throbbing thighs. Two of his fingers thrust inside my core, and I go still. My skin turns red, and I’m forced to see every detail of my embarrassment in the mirror in front of us. I have to see the two whitening scars on my side from the massacre and the ugly hole in my shoulder from when I was shot. When I try to shift my attention to the floor, Kirill uses his grip on my neck and lifts it up. “You’re going to watch me own every part of you so you understand that you’re completely mine.” He thrusts a third finger in, stretching me so fully that I can’t focus on anything but his touch. He scissors his fingers inside me, and a burst of pleasure floods throu