"I kept thinking—" Her voice cracks and she stops, gripping the edge of the sink. "What if I hadn't been there? What if she'd been alone, or with someone who didn't know to bring her in right away?"
"But you were there." I reach out, my hand finding the small of her back. She's trembling. "You saved her, Izzy."
"I was terrified." She turns to face me, her eyes red-rimmed and exhausted, but fierce. "She was so small in that hospital bed. So pale. And Elena was screaming at me, and I couldn't think past the monitor beeping and wondering if you'd make it in time?—"
I pull her against my chest before she can finish. She collapses into me like her strings have been cut, her face buried in my shoulder, and I feel the moment she stops holding it together. Her hands fist in my shirt, her breathing goes ragged, and she's shaking so hard I tighten my arms to keep her upright.
"I've got you,kotyonok," I murmur into her hair. "Let it out."
"I don't—I can't—" But she does. Not crying, exactly. More like the adrenaline finally crashing, her body remembering it's allowed to break now that the crisis is over.
I hold her through it. My hand moves in slow circles on her back, my other hand cradling the back of her head, and I press my lips to her temple. Her pulse hammers against my chest, gradually slowing as the shaking subsides.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are wet but clear. "Sorry. That was?—"
"Human. You held it together for hours. You're allowed to fall apart now."
"I'm supposed to be strong. The composed Davenport heiress who doesn't crack under pressure."
"You were strong. You are strong." I tilt her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You got my daughter to the hospital. You stood up to Elena. You held Mila's hand while she was scared and made her feel safe. That's the strongest thing I've ever seen."
Her breath catches. "Sergei?—"
"I mean it." My thumb traces her lower lip, watching her pupils dilate. "When I walked into that hospital room and saw you standing there, protecting her from Elena, looking like you'd fight God himself to keep her safe—" I stop, the words catching in my throat. "I've never wanted someone the way I want you."
Heat flashes across her face. "We shouldn't. Mila's just down the hall?—"
"Asleep." I lean closer, my forehead resting against hers. "And you need this. Need to feel alive after spending hours thinking about death."
"How do you know what I need?" But her hands are already sliding up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt.
"Because I need it, too." I capture her mouth in a kiss that's meant to be gentle, controlled, but the second her lips part under mine, control goes out the window.
She kisses me back with desperation, with leftover fear transforming into hunger. Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt, and I groan, backing her against the counter. My hands find her waist, sliding under her shirt and the feel of her bare skin makes my brain short-circuit.
"Bedroom," she gasps against my mouth. "Not the kitchen. Not with Mila?—"
"Agreed." I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically, and carry her toward the stairs. She's kissing my neck, my jaw, that spot behind my ear that makes me see stars, and I nearly trip on the bottom step.
"Graceful," she teases, breathless.
"Shut up." But I'm grinning as I kick open our bedroom door and lay her on the bed.
She looks up at me, black hair spread across my pillow, blue eyes dark with want, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her shirt has ridden up, exposing the flat plane of her stomach, and I can see the goosebumps rising on her skin.
I kiss her again, and she melts into it with a sound that goes straight to my cock.
Her bra is black lace, simple but elegant, and her nipples pebble under my thumbs. I lean down, taking one into my mouth through the fabric, and she arches off the bed with a gasp.
"Sergei—"
I move to the other side, giving it the same attention, until she's writhing beneath me, her hips rocking against mine, searching for friction. Only then do I slide down her body, kissing a trail down her stomach until I reach the waistband of her jeans.
"Off," I command, and she lifts her hips without hesitation.
I peel the jeans down her legs, tossing them aside. Her panties match the bra—more black lace that barely covers anything. I can already see how wet she is, the fabric dark and clinging to her folds.
I hook my fingers in the waistband and slowly pull them down, baring her to me completely. She's beautiful—already slick and swollen, glistening in the lamplight, and the sight makes my mouth water.
