“Yes,” I snap, hitting him again.
“Calm the fuck down.”
“Fuck you!”
“Stella.”
“Let me go!”
But that’s all the time I get before his mouth crashes onto mine, stealing every protest from my lips. My traitorous body melts into him, and before I can even think, my lips are kissing him right back, my fingers now entangled in his hair.
“Why do you always fight me?” he murmurs between kisses. “Why do you insist on fighting us?”
Because I have to.
Because all of this is far too terrifying not to want to run away from.
But I don’t say that. I just kiss him harder, until we’re all teeth and tongues and desperation.
“Fuck, I need you so bad,” he growls, his hard cock already poking at my ass.
“Russian. Talk to me in Russian,” I order breathlessly as I rip through every button of his shirt, and pull my sweater off me, just so I can feel his skin against mine. I sigh in contentment when Kirill begins to sing sonnets to me in his native tongue, while his mouth overpowers mine.
In my head he’s saying all the words I yearn to hear but shouldn’t.
He tells me that I’m beautiful. That I’m the only woman for him. He tells me that he yearns and hungers for me like I crave him. He tells me that one minute apart from me is pure torture and that these last couple of months were as maddening for him as they were for me.
He says everything I feel but will never be able to reciprocate back.
In Russian, I can pretend that he doesn’t say any of those words, that it’s all in my imagination.
In Russian, I can pretend that my heart is still safe and not in danger of falling in love with him.
In Russian, I can still lie to myself that none of this is real.
In English, I can not.
“Kill,” I moan out when his mouth finds the hollow of my neck, licking its way up to my mouth, nibbling on my bottom lip, before sliding his tongue to be reunited with mine.
“Tell me what you need,” he growls with a devastating look in his jet-black eyes. “Say it, Stella. I need to hear it.”
I know what he wants to hear. That all I need is him. But I coward out and say, “Fuck me,” instead.
There’s a sad glint in his eyes, but he isn’t able to deny me either. Not when he wants this just as badly as I do.
Kirill grips my waist, lifts me with effortless strength, and lays me down on the plush cream carpet in front of the fireplace.The glow of the embers catches his eyes, turning them molten, and the sight is enough to make my heart ache.
No man should be this beautiful.
Especially not when he’s looking at me like I’m something precious. Like I’m his whole world.
Unable to withstand that look in his eyes for another second, I shove him off me so that he’s the one lying on his back. I unzip his pants and chuck them off him, followed quickly by my own. The head of his cock glistens above the waistband of his briefs, and I carefully strip them away, followed by my own panties and bra. Now fully naked, I take him in. And that’s when I see it—bitemarks tattooed to his skin on his left shoulder.
“You got a new tattoo?” I ask breathlessly.
“I did.”
“When? Back in Russia?”
