"You were being reckless." I'm still pressed against her. I can feel her heart racing. Or maybe that's mine. "Do you have any idea what Roman would do if he found you listening to private conversations?"
"I wasn't afraid—"
"You should be." My hand finds the wall beside her head, caging her in. "He's killed for less."
Her chin lifts defiantly. "Don’t act like you're worried about my safety. Not now."
She's right. I should have let her get caught. Should have let Roman's men handle her.
Except the thought of anyone else touching her makes me want to commit murder.
"This is a mistake," I say, even as I lean closer.
"Everything between us is a mistake." Her breathing picks up. "Hasn't stopped us yet."
I should walk away.
Instead, I kiss her.
It's not gentle. Not tender. It's the familiar rage and grief and need compressed into something that feels like violence and salvation tangled together. It happens whenever I’m near her.
I hate her.
I love her.
I need her.
Her hands pull me closer instead of pushing me away. She’s just as desperate for me. Her mouth devours mine. She whimpers and moans, clawing at me.
We're past caring about anything except this connection. This need that won't die no matter how much we try to kill it.
She pulls at my clothes with shaking hands, both of us fighting fabric until there's nothing between us but skin and scars and the truth we keep trying to deny.
"Tell me to stop," I say against her throat. "Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't." Her nails dig into my shoulders. "God help me, I can't."
I lift her against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically.
"Maksim."
"I hate you," I say against her mouth.
"I hate you too." Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. "So much."
I position myself at her entrance, feeling how ready she is for me. How her body betrays every protest she might make.
Her nails rake down my back, leaving marks I'll feel tomorrow.
I thrust into her in one brutal stroke. The sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—nearly undoes me.
She's tight and wet and perfect. Just like I remember. Just like every night in that cell when I'd close my eyes and pretend I was anywhere but there.
"Look at me," I demand, gripping her jaw. "I want to see your face."
Her eyes open. Love and hatred and desperate need all tangled together.
I start to move, each thrust harder than the last. Punishing us both for this weakness. For needing each other despite everything between us.
