Not with the desperate hunger he harbored while sitting on my couch or when claiming possession in my kitchen, but with a more tender desire.
His lips brush over mine with careful restraint, as if I might shatter under his touch.
And I do shatter. But not from fear.
From need.
My arms encircle his neck, drawing him closer. My body arches, angling for more contact. The fear transforms into liquid fire that floods my veins.
“Kolya.” I breathe against his mouth, his name a plea I can’t fully articulate.
His kiss becomes harder, hungrier, his hands traveling my back to my hips and gripping roughly enough to bruise.I welcome the pressure. The slight edge of pain grounds me. Makes the moment in this night-long fever dream real.
I need this.
Need to surrender control to someone who holds nothingbutcontrol. The realization should embarrass me.
This isn’t who I am, this desperate woman clinging to a dangerous man in Brenda Fucking Smith’s basement.
But if I want to survive, maybe she’s exactly who I need to be.
I stretch back an infinitesimal amount. “Tell me what to do. Please.”
He stills. Then he tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat.
His eyes bore into mine. “Are you sure?”
I nod, unable to speak around the knot of need.
His grip in my hair tightens. “Turn around.”
As I obey, I’m aware of every inch of my body. I’m drowning in his presence, in the vulnerability of my position.
His hands slide up my sides and beneath my hastily donned shirt, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Like a switch flipping, my body remembers the intimate moments before the shots rang out.
He presses against me from behind, his hard length evident even through our clothes. His breath scalds my neck as he nips at the sensitive skin below my ear.
“Is this what you want?” One hand cups my breast over my shirt, thumb leisurely circling my nipple. “Someone to take over?”
“Yes.” I arch back against him. “Yes.”
He readjusts me slightly, guiding me toward the stack of boxes labeledFAMILY PHOTOSwith deliberate, measured movements, each touch calculated to wind me tighter. He positions me in front of the boxes, then slowly pushes meforward until I’m bent over them, my palms flat against the dusty cardboard.
His hands move to my jeans, unfastening them with swift efficiency before tugging them down. The cool basement air kisses my bare skin, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with chill and everything to do with anticipation.
Kolya’s hand at the small of my back holds me down. “Stay.”
I shiver at his authoritative command, at my own eager compliance.
I’ve never allowed this version of me to exist before. A me who wants to be claimed, controlled, consumed.
Behind me, unseen, he pulls down his zipper. Then his hands are on my hips again, positioning me the way he wants me. His touch leaves streaks of dust on my skin, claiming me.
“Look at you. Sweet kindergarten teacher bent over boxes of another family’s memories, ass in the air, waiting to be fucked.”
The crude words shoot a shock of heat straight to my core. I’ve never been talked to like this. Never wanted to be.
Until now. Until him.
