INSATIABLE CRAVINGS
Insatiable Cravings – Episode 108
Subtitle; {Loving You Is A Loosing Game}
TAGS: Age-gap, Mafia, Forbidden Love, Drama, Tragedy and Betrayal.
Settings: United Kingdom, Russia and others.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
~ Genevieve ~
Turning onto my side, I cracked my eyes open just as the early morning sunlight poured through the curtains—blinding, warm, and unwelcome. I flinched, my lashes fluttering against the sting of it before I rolled back, pulling the covers up slightly to shield myself.
The soft hum of contentment still lingered in me like a melody carried over from last night.
Perhaps it was the fact I was in Dominic’s bed.
That thought alone should’ve sent me bolting from this sinfully soft mattress—his mattress. But instead, it had me sinking deeper into the cotton clouds of his duvet, letting my cheek rest against the pillow that still held the faintest trace of his scent. Earthy, clean, distinctly him.
Whatever was in that drink must’ve been stronger than I thought if I let Dominic bring me back here. Aurora. Bloódy héll, I ought to blame her.
Or thank her.
Shut up.
My body and mind were clearly at odds. My head was screaming for logic—telling me to find Dominic, to tell him that last night was a mistake, and to walk out of here with some blóody dignity intact.
But my body? My body didn’t want to move. It craved the memory of his arms around me, of the kiss that unravelled every last thread of my restraint. I loved it—every unguarded second of it. And what I adored most… was falling asleep wrapped in his arms.
I hadn’t felt peace like that in years. His arms had always been my sanctuary—cool against my skin, strong around my back. The one place on earth where everything stilled.
He kissed my hair. Just like he used to. The tiniest act, yet it split me wide open.
With a sigh, I finally sat up, sweeping the covers aside as I glanced around the room—his room. It was unchanged, really. The dark mahogany wardrobe still stood proudly by the far wall, the curtains were the same navy velvet, and the carpet felt plush beneath my bare feet.
The only difference? A desk now stood in the corner.
Curiosity prickled under my skin, compelling. I padded across the floor, each step silent but intent. I hadn’t even registered moving until I was already in front of it, fingers ghosting over the edges like the desk might búrn me.
Sketchbooks. Torn sheets. Pencils, worn down to stubs. An eraser smudged with graphite.
He’d been drawing. That in itself wasn’t surprising—but the fact he never showed me his work? That was.
He always said it wasn’t the time.
Well, my time is now.
My fingers hovered over the nearest sketchbook, itching to crack it open, just a peek. I told myself a little curiosity never hurt anyone. I told myself I’d always wanted to see what lived inside Dominic’s mind.
But just as I slipped my fingers beneath the cover, I heard him behind me.
“Snooping?”
I froze.
Why did I freeze?
Maybe my brain thought if I went perfectly still, he wouldn’t see me. Like I was a child caught nicking biscuits.
He stepped into view, holding two steaming mugs, the scent of coffee curling through the air. His gaze didn’t leave mine, not even as he placed the mugs gently on the desk.
“You were definitely snooping.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Why I lied, I don’t know. He clearly caught me red-handed.
He gave a soft, theatrical hum. “I’m not the lawyer here, but I’m fairly certain that’s an offence.”
“Not if you’re the one who kept me here.”
“Kept?” His chuckle was warm with disbelief. “You make it sound like I locked you in.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it’s not.” He shook his head, amusement lingering in his eyes like smoke. “You’re the guilty party here.”
“Alright, fine. Maybe I was snooping.” His eyes lit up with that maddeníng, knowing glint. Whiskey brown and wicked.
“I just wanted to see them,” I added quietly.
His smile—the one he only ever gave me—spread slowly across his face as he reached for the sketchbook and flipped it open.
“Well… there you go.”
It was me.
My breath caught.
A pencil drawing. My face. Just my head, but undeniably me. The softness in my features, the smile reaching all the way to my eyes. My hair was pulled into a ponytail, two defiant strands framing my face. It was dated… two months after we first got together.
Something inside my chest pulled tight. My heart stuttered—unsure whether to race or stop altogether.
Thank God it didn’t stop.
My knees buckled slightly, and I gripped the desk to keep upright. The weight of the moment sat heavily on my chest.
Dominic turned the page.
Another sketch. Side profile. My hair down, a natural tumble of waves. I was grinning—so alive, so me. It was dated on our six-month anniversary. I remembered that day. Our dinner, the laughter, the look he gave me across the table like I was the only thing that existed.
He turned the page again. Then again. And again.
It was me on every one. Every sketch after our breakup… except one.
Then came the surprise.
It wasn’t me.
It was Dynamite.
A laugh escaped me, short and breathy. “Seriously?”
“I know, right?” Dominic grinned. “He’s adorable.”
Adorable and terrifyiñg. A fluffy múrder machine. That dog’s been trained like a blóody àssassin.
“He is—when he wants to be.”
“Exactly.” His voice was tinged with fondness. “Next one’s Dañger.” He flipped the page. “Would’ve been unfair not to draw her too.”
“You’re right. It would’ve.”
“Glad I did then.” He placed the sketchbook down. “The rest are still you. I did a couple of Rory and—”
“Why?” I cut in.
His brow furrowed. “Because I wanted to?”
I swept a few strands of hair behind my ear. “No. I mean… why are they all out?”
My gaze landed on a loose sheet. I turned it over—
And forgot how to breathe.
It was us. Unfinished. Beautiful and strange. Delicately chàotic. The kind of sketch that said more in its incompleteness than a finished one ever could.
My fingers itched to see more. I reached for another.
Another sketch. Us again. Half-formed, raw, aching.
I didn’t speak for too long. I could feel the tension pouring off him—uncertainty mingling with the need to explain.
I looked up and met his gaze. “Why are they all out?”
“I was going to—”
“What? Throw them away?” My voice cracked, traitorous.
He shook his head. “I was going to keep them away.”
Away?
“What does that even mean?”
“Away from me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re leaving,” he said plainly. “And the less I see them, the easier it’ll be to move on. This time, properly.”
The words sliced through me, sharp and cold.
Move on.
Is that what I wanted?
Did I want him to forget me? Us? Did I want him to carry on like I was never part of him?
No. Selfishly, bitterly, no.
I wanted to linger in his thoughts. I wanted my name to echo through his mind even when he wished it wouldn’t.
I wanted to be the only one he looked at like that—with fíre and devotion and wreckage all wrapped into one gaze. I wanted to be the one who unravelled him.
I wanted his love. That devastatíng, soul-scàrring kind of love.
He saw the truth before I could speak it. Stepped closer. A deliberate step into my space. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I didn’t answer.
Another step. “You want me to move on? Forget you? Be with someone else?”
A startled gasp tore itself from my throat the moment my back collided with the door—shut, though I hadn’t even realised it had been closed in the first place. Or perhaps it hadn’t been. There was no time to unravel the thought because Dominic was already upon me, pinning me with the full weight of his presence, eyes ablaze with every emotion I desperately wished to remain blind to.
“That woman last night’s a rather good candidate, don’t you think?”
Ràge. White-hot and unrelenting. It coursed through me, and while I would have loved to dismiss it as irrational, I knew exactly what it was.
Jealousy.
I raised my hands instinctively, wanting to push him away—needing to breathe air that wasn’t thick with his scent, heavy with his heat. My palms had only just met his chest when he caught both wrists with a single hand, forcing them above my head and pressing them to the wall.
His grip wasn’t crúel, but it was commanding. Possessive.
His eyes darkened further—burníng now, wild and húngry. And God help me, I felt every bit of it. Every raw pulse of desire that rippled off him.
I wanted his mouth on mine. His hands roaming across places I’d only ever let him touch. I wanted the low, broken grunts of pleasure he gave me when I kissed every inch of him.
Just like last night.
“What?” he murmured, voice thick with want, deep and worn at the edges. “Don’t tell me you’re cross because I want to move on. Isn’t that what you’ll do once you’re back in China?”
The infuriatingly handsome bastàrd gave me no room to respond, already pressing on.
“I am curious, though. You said something last night, just before you passed out.”
I did?
He nodded, as though he’d plucked the question right out of my mind.
“Want to know what it was?”
I said nothing—just glared, jaw clenched.
“You don’t?” he asked, mock surprise curling in his tone. Then he grinned, slow and wicked. “Well, I’ll tell you anyway.”
Impatience surged through me like a storm swelling in the distance—tension crackling through the air, and he knew it. He fed off it.
He leaned in, voice silken with cruél delight. “You, Genevieve, said that you. Love. Me.” He drew the words out, letting each syllable land like a blow. “And—” A completely unnecessary pause. “I just want to know if it’s true.”
“Of course it’s not,” I spat, struggling against his grip, which remained firm but never bruising.
“Hm. So you don’t have feelings for me?”
“My feelings for you died the night you ended us, Dominic. Now let me go.”
“No.”
My brow arched. “No?”
“Yes. I said no.”
“They’re my bloody hands, give them back.” I yanked again, with more force this time, but still got nowhere—except a breathless grunt of frustration. “Dominic, let go.”
“You know,” he said coolly, “you told me the opposite last night.”
“Who cares? I was drunk.”
“Me! I care!” The words cracked through the air, sharp and raw, his control fraying. “I blóody care.”
“You’re four years too late.”
That knocked the wind out of him. He exhaled, rough and uneven, before finally releasing my wrists. I staggered slightly, light-headed from the intensity of it all, but before I could take more than a single breath, his hands were on my face—gentle, trembling.
His touch was reverent, and his eyes… his eyes were glassy. “Then give me a chance to make it right.”
No.
“Let me fix it,” he whispered.
No.
“One more chance, and I promise—” I winced. He faltered, his voice cracking on the word promise, the memory of every promise he’d ever broken hanging between us like ghosts. “I swear I’ll make it right.”
A tear escaped him. Then another. And another. Each one fell silently, streaking down the face of the man I once thought incapable of paiñ.
“Please?”
“Dominic, I can’t—”
“Please?”
Dominic Morozov does not beg. Not in boardrooms. Not in back alleys. Not as the gentleman he pretends to be, nor as the rúthless Bràtva king he truly is.
But here he was. Begging. For me. Because of me.
And somehow, that húrt more than anything. And yet, filled me with the sick satisfaction that I got a man as powerful as that begging.
“A week.” My voice was foreign to my own ears—low, soft, fragile. “If you don’t change my mind by then, I’ll go back to China. And I swear to God, I’ll make sure we never cross paths again, even if it kílls me too.”
Dominic’s lips parted, but no words came. Just breath.
“Even if it takes forever,” I went on, eyes stinging, “I’ll forget every part of you. I’ll erase everything. And—”
I never got the chance to finish.
His lips crashed onto mine, silencing me in the only way he knew how.
His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was desperate.
A collision of mouths and memories. Of heartbreak and heat.
He kissed me like a man unravelling, as if this was his last tether to something good in the world, and he was clinging for dear life. His hands were still on my face, trembling slightly, thumbs brushing my cheeks, his mouth moving against mine with an urgency that stole the breath straight from my lungs.
I should’ve pushed him away.
I should’ve turned my face, said something cutting, reminded him that he doesn’t have the right to do that. Not yet, at least.
But I didn’t.
I kissed him back.
Because for all the húrt and heartbreak, for all the years we’d spent apart pretending the other didn’t exist—this was still him. My Dominic. The man who used to make me laugh until my stomach ached. The man whose demóns never scared me.
His lips parted mine, his tongue sweeping in, coaxing, claiming, and I let him.
The kiss turned slower, deeper. One of those ruinous kinds that left you dizzy, disarmed, and utterly undone. My hands, once free, slid into his hair, fingers curling there as I pulled him closer—because if we were going to fall apart all over again, then by God, I wanted to fall hard.
His body pressed flush against mine now, heat pouring from him in waves, as though the years hadn’t cooled a dàmn thing between us. His scent clung to the air—spiced cologne and something dàrker underneath, something distinctly him, embedded in the very bones of this room that hadn’t changed in four blóody years.
It still looked exactly the same. Same books on the shelf. Same stúpid grey throw at the end of the bed. Same shadows clinging to the corners where we used to talk in the dark, voices soft and limbs tangled. And the same dàmn sheets where he had once whispered he loved me.
I pulled away just enough to breathe, our foreheads resting together, both of us panting like we’d run a marathon. My lips were swollen, heart thundering so loud I could feel the echo of it in my fingertips.
My heart ached. God, it ached so much I nearly buckled beneath it. But I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. Not yet.
Instead, I watched him. Watched every muscle in his face war between hope and devastation. Watched the man I love look at me like he loves me too.
TBC📖✍️
