"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes raking over me with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm on fire.
I should feel vulnerable. Exposed. Instead, I feel powerful. The way he's looking at me—like I'm something precious and dangerous at the same time—makes me feel like a goddess.
"Your turn," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
He shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor without care. The shirt follows, revealing a chest that makes my mouth go dry. He's built like someone who does more than just box for fun—all lean muscle and defined lines. The tattoos I glimpsed on hisknuckles extend up his arms in intricate patterns that I want to trace with my tongue.
When he reaches for me again, I go willingly. His mouth finds mine as his hands work to free me from the torture device of my undergarments. I gasp against his lips when the Spanx finally give way. He hungrily swallows the sound.
"Better?" he murmurs against my throat.
"God, yes."
"Last chance to change your mind, Red," he says, his voice rough with restraint.
I reach for his belt, my fingers fumbling with the buckle. "I'm not changing my mind."
That's all the permission he needs. He captures my hands, pinning them above my head with one of his while the other explores my body with reverent touches that leave me gasping. Every nerve ending is alive.
"Tell me what you want," he commands, his voice low and authoritative.
"You," I breathe. "I want you."
"More specific."
The demand sends heat spiraling through me. "I want you to take control. I want you to make me forget everything except this moment."
His smile is dark and satisfied. "That I can do."
"Zaika," he murmurs against my throat, the unfamiliar word sending shivers down my spine.
"What does that mean?" I gasp as his mouth finds that spot just below my ear.
"Later," he says, and then his lips are on mine again and I forget the question entirely.
I've never been with anyone like him. Men I've dated before have been eager but clumsy, focused on their own pleasure. This man—whoever he really is—treats my body like an instrument he was born to play. Every touch is deliberate, calculated to drive me higher.
When I try to return the favor, to explore the planes of his chest and the scars that tell stories I don't know, he catches my wrists.
"Not yet," he says, voice rough with restraint. "Tonight is about you."
The words should sound cheesy, like a line from a romance novel. Instead, they make me feel cherished. Worshipped.
When he’s down to nothing but the tight boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination and I’m in nothing but my black thong, there is a brief moment of hesitation.
And then he’s on me. His mouth is hot and wet. He spins me around and pushes me against the wall. His hard body pushes against mine.
I can feel his heart beating against my back.
One strong hand holds my wrists above my head while the other jerks the thong, tearing the thin fabric from my body.
I gasp and immediately feel heat pooling low in my belly.
His teeth graze across my shoulder while he uses his knee between my thighs to force my legs open. My breath catches as his free hand traces down my spine, leaving fire in its wake.
"You're trembling," he murmurs against my ear, his accent thicker now.
I am. Every nerve in my body is alive, electric. "I'm not scared," I manage to say.
