A small whimper escapes me—more pleasure than protest—as my nipple hardens against his palm. He groans at the noise and draws slow, torturous circles with his thumb.
Oh god, what am I doing?
I lift my hands and push against the solid wall of his chest. It’s like shoving against unyielding, immovable concrete. His heart hammers beneath my palm, the only sign he’s affected at all by what’s happening between us. I shove harder, suddenly unsure if I’m still trying to create distance or merely testing his strength.
He retreats a few inches, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against mine.
Our heavy breaths mingle in the narrow space between our mouths. I inhale air thick with his scent, leather and vodka and a musky fragrance with hints of evergreen. My lips throb, continuing to hum with the ghost of his possession.
“Good.” I straighten my shirt in an attempt to reclaim some semblance of dignity. “Glad we have an understanding.”
“Mmm.” He leans back a little farther, enough to reveal his face.
My ribs clench around my lungs.
This smile is different.
Not the familiar cold, calculated curve of his lips, or the predatory baring of teeth. No, this smile conveys genuine pleasure and transforms his features, softening the jagged edges.
This smile unnerves me more than all the others combined.
“What?” I hate the breathless quality of my voice.
His hand drops to my waist. He nudges me backward, guiding me toward the huge dining room table.
“Sit.” His low rumble vibrates through my bones.
I start to pull out one of the elegant chairs, assuming he wants to continue our negotiation over breakfast, but his grip on my arm reroutes me to the table instead.
Confusion clouds my brain. “You want me to sit…on the table?”
His eyes, darkened with intent, answer for him. Understanding dawns.
Holy. Shit.
“Um, okay.” A fresh wave of desire scorches me as I perch on the edge, hyper-aware of the expensive wood under my butt. Misusing the table in this manner feels improper. An absurd concern given everything else that’s happened, but one I cling to nonetheless.
Normal people don’t sit on dining tables. Normal people use chairs.
Except nothing about this situation is normal…including Alexei Kozlov himself.
He tugs a strand of my hair and releases it. “Lie down.”
I scoot back a few inches. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t hygienic. Tables are for eating. Not for…”
…whatever you’re about to do to me.
His expression becomes devilish. “Oh, but I do plan to eat.”
Pure heat pulses between my legs as he guides me onto my back. “Oh. Um. But?—”
“No more talking. Unless you want me to gag you again?”
Fear compresses my heart at the thought of enduring another gag. “No! Please don’t. I’ll…be quiet.” I bite my lip to prevent another nervous rush of words from tumbling out.
He towers over me, the flicker of remorse in his eyes suggesting that he won’t gag me again.
Probably.
