His hands slide under my sweater, finding bare skin.
I'm already pulling his jacket off, letting it fall to the ground.
He makes a sound—half groan, half growl—and then he's walking me backward until my back hits a tree. The bark is rough through my sweater, grounding me in this moment. Making it real.
His mouth moves to my neck, finding the spot that always made me melt. Still does. My head falls back, giving him access. I feel his teeth graze my skin.
"I hate you," he murmurs against my throat.
"I hate you too." My hands are working his belt, desperate to feel him. "So much."
"Good." He yanks my sweater over my head, tossing it aside. His eyes rake over me, dark with need. "Because this doesn't mean forgiveness."
"I don't want forgiveness." I reach for his shirt, pulling it free. "I wantyou."
He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed. At his mercy.
I should be afraid. Should remember that this man wants to destroy me.
Instead, I arch into him.
"Say it again," he demands, his free hand tracing down my ribs to my waist. "Tell me you want me."
"I want you." The words come out desperate. Honest. "I've wanted you every single day for six years."
Something breaks in his expression. The cold hatred cracks, revealing the raw need underneath. He releases my wrists to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize were falling.
"Kira." He sounds angry. Furious. "What are you doing to me?"
"The same thing you're doing to me." I pull him down for another kiss. "Destroying everything."
This kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Like we're trying to memorize each other through touch alone.
His hands move to my jeans, working the button and zipper. This is different from the garden. Neither wants to admit we want this.
"Tell me to stop." His fingers slip beneath my panties, finding me already wet. "Tell me this is wrong."
"It is wrong." I gasp as he strokes me. "Do it anyway."
He makes that sound again—the one that's pure frustrated need—and drops to his knees.
The sight of him like this—Maksim Barinov on his knees before me—would be powerful if I had any brain cells left. But he's pulling my jeans and panties down, and I can't think about power dynamics or who's winning this war between us.
I can only feel.
His mouth finds me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. We're outside. Anyone could stumble across this spot. But I can't bring myself to care.
His tongue works my clit with devastating precision. He remembers exactly how I like it—the pressure, the rhythm, the way I need him to—
"Maksim." My hands fist in his hair. "Please."
He looks up at me, and the sight of him between my thighs, his eyes dark with desire and something that might be love, nearly undoes me.
"Please what?" His breath ghosts over sensitive flesh. "Tell me what you need."
"You." The word breaks. "I need you."
He stands abruptly, leaving me teetering on the edge. I whimper at the loss. But then he's turning me around, pressing my palms flat against the tree trunk.
