“No,” I say in my head. “No, don’t—what the fuck are you doing, Roman—”
He unbuckles the belt.
The sound of leather sliding through loops hits me harder than it should. My knees actually weaken, which is frankly rude because I’m already barefoot and half-naked and in no condition to be collapsing over a man who bought me like I’m a blender.
He pulls the belt free with one long, smooth drag of the leather, and my thighs press together, andholy shit, I need to get my life under control.
The belt hits the floor with a soft thud.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and looks at me like he’s making sure I’m paying attention.
I ampaying attention.
I’m paying more attention than any woman has ever paid to anything.
He pushes the trousers down his hips.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just a man who is used to being looked at and never flinches.
The trousers drop to the floor.
He slides the briefs down in one smooth motion—
And then he’s naked.
Completely, devastatingly naked.
My lungs forget what oxygen is.
My eyes widen so much they water.
My brain checks out and leaves a note: “Good luck, bitch.”
Because Roman Volkov is not just attractive naked.
He is obscenely naked.
His shoulders are broad enough to block the firelight. His chest is all hard muscles.
His stomach is cut in a way I didn’t think was real. His thighs look like they could break concrete.
And his cock—
Jesus fucking Christ.
It’s… big.
No.
That’s not the right word.
“Big” is what you say about a baguette.
This is a weapon. A whole separate entity.
