He grips my wrists, stopping me. His voice is low and unsteady.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
My heart thuds. He knows something is off. Or thinks he does.
I look up at him slowly.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t like anyone else.”
But as I say it, the image of Brutus’ soft smile flashes through my mind. His dimpled cheeks. The bruises he gives me, yet always apologizes for like it’s painful for him, too. The gentleness he shows me after in a world where gentleness is rare. For a second, I wonder if there is something there, because Gustav was cold and cruel then. But the moment is gone before I can name it.
I shake my head.
Gustav studies me, his eyes glinting with a mix of desire and suspicion, as if he can hear the heartbeat of the lie I didn’t mean to tell.
Chapter 29
Peighton
“You look lovely on your knees,” Gustav says in a gravelly tone. “But I am not stupid, moyá mishka. Knees can be a shield just as much as a gift.”
I look up, trying to hide the way my nerves shake.
Gustav studies me the way a storm approaches a coastline, as if deciding how violently to break me apart. There is heat in his stare, but darkness swirls underneath it. I can never quite read him, yet my heart flutters hard enough that it makes me draw in a long breath.
He leans back in a chair and his gaze drags over me. Christmas lights throwing little sparks of color across his chiseled face. Her narrows his eyes.
“My devushka. My wife. My problem… Let’s fix it. Cheek on the floor,” he says.
I fidget with her fingers, trying to look composed. “I have another present for you,” I suggest instead.
He nearly laughs. “You think I will let you distract me with your mouth when you have not answered my question.”
My shoulders tighten.
“Gustav, I told you. No, I don’t. I am yours.”
“Mm, but you said it too fast.” he rises, towering over me. “I want to hear the truth, unguarded.”
My throat bobs.
“Cheek on floor,” he repeats, firmer.
My breath stalls. I lower myself, spine curving, bottom lifting. My cheek and palms touch the old stone floor, the surface cold and rough. It feels like a position meant for someone else. It’s for someone who can be shameless, someone experienced. But the sound of his breath thickening behind me sends a strange bloom of heat low in my stomach. I hear the rustle of fabric. Then the sharp rip of elastic sliding down my thighs. Cold air hits my bare skin.
His fingers brush over my hips, light but claiming, and I swear the touch travels all the way through me. Shame floods my cheeks, mixing with a pulse of raw need. I hate how my body responds to him, how just being exposed like this makes me throb with want.
“I will ask again,” he murmurs. “Do you desire another man?”
It isn’t really a question. It’s a knife held under my ribs. I suck in a breath and answer fast, because the idea of losing him terrifies me more than the cold floor or his anger.
“No. I want you. Only you.”
His hand slides lower, slow enough to make me shake. The head of his cock presses to my entrance and my hips twitch back without permission, lifting my cheek off the floor. Before I can gasp, his palm cracks across my ass. The sound snaps through the room like fire.
“Stay still.”
I drop my cheek back to the stone, face burning. Embarrassment tightens my throat, but arousal trickles down my inner thigh. I squeeze my eyes shut. I want him. God, I want him so badly it frightens me.
