“You should leave.” I tried to push against his chest, but he didn’t budge. “Just finish the security system and walk away. Forget you ever met me. Forget—” My voice cracked. “Forget everything.”
For a long moment, he just stared at me. And I waited for him to do exactly what I’d suggested. To pull away, to look at me with disgust, to walk out and never come back.
But he didn’t.
Instead, something shifted in his expression. The anger was still there, but underneath it, I saw something else. Something achingly familiar.
The same thing I felt every time I looked at him.
“I can’t,” he said roughly. “God help me, I’ve tried. But I can’t forget you.”
Then his lips slammed onto mine.
It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t tender or sweet or any of the things kisses were supposed to be. This was fury made physical.Punishment and salvation all at once. His teeth caught my bottom lip hard enough to sting, and I gasped against his mouth.
He took advantage, deepening the kiss until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel. Could only respond with the same desperate need that had been building between us since that first night in the club.
His hands were possessive, yanking my hair back, gripping my waist, sliding up my ribs to claim me—and mine matched his intensity. I clawed at his shirt, my nails digging into his shoulders through the fabric, desperate to get closer even though we were already pressed chest-to-chest.
“This is wrong,” I gasped against his mouth, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. My fingers found the buttons of his shirt, ripping two of them off in my haste. “You hate me.”
“I do.” His voice was a wrecked growl, vibrating against my skin. He grabbed the hem of my shirt and tore it over my head in one smooth, aggressive motion. His eyes went dark, pupils swallowing the irises, as they traced over my bare breasts. “This changes nothing.”
“Good.” I reached for his belt, my hands shaking but determined, fumbling with the heavy buckle. “Because I still hate you too.”
But hate had never felt like this. Hate was supposed to be cold, a wall between us. This was a raging fire, a need so sharp it felt like a weapon.
Clothes hit the floor; his shirt, my pants, his belt making a heavy metallic clatter. He shoved his boxers down, and his erection sprang free—heavy, and leaking pre-cum. The sight of him, fully aroused and furious, made my knees weak.
He didn’t wait. He pushed me backward onto the bed, following me down instantly. The mattress dipped under his weight as he crawled over me, settling between my legs. Hedidn’t prep me; he just gripped my hips, his thumbs digging into the bruising flesh, and spread me wide.
“You’re infuriating,” he snarled against my throat, his hips snapping forward so the broad head of his cock rubbed against my slick, swollen entrance. “Frustrating. Impossible.”
“Back at you,” I managed, my breath hitching as he teased the opening, coating himself in my wetness. I arched up, desperate for the fill. “Arrogant. Judgmental. Insufferable.”
“So stop me.” His teeth grazed my collarbone, sending electric shocks down my spine. He lined himself up, the tip stretching me. “Tell me to leave.”
I should have. But instead, I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles to trap him there.
“I hate you,” I whispered, pleading.
He laughed against my skin—dark, bitter, and honest. “I hate you too.”
Then he thrust. He drove into me in one long, punishing stroke, burying himself to the hilt. I screamed, my head thrown back, as he stretched me beyond capacity. He was huge, filling every inch of me, hitting that deep, sensitive barrier inside.
“So tight,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as my inner walls clamped down around him. “Fuck, Barbara.”
There were no more words. Just ragged breaths and the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin. He withdrew almost completely, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming back in. The friction was blinding. He didn’t make love; he used me. He ground his hips against mine, his pubic bone bruising my clitoris with every thrust, creating a dual friction that made my vision blur.
Every touch was a challenge. Every kiss a battle. We fought for dominance, for control. He pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, leaving me exposed and vulnerable,while he pounded into me with a rhythm that was frantic and bordering on violent.
“Look at you,” he demanded, opening his eyes to watch me unravel. “Taking all of me.”
“Kirill—” His name came out as a gasp, a prayer, a curse all at once. The pleasure was building too fast, a tight coil of heat low in my belly that was about to snap.
“I know.” His voice was strained, his body taut as a wire. He let go of my hands to grab my waist again, anchoring me for deeper impact. “I know.”
The world narrowed to just this—the feeling of his thick shaft stretching me open, the burn of the friction, the smell of sweat and sex. He hit a spot deep inside, rubbing against it relentlessly, and I fell apart.
