"Bianca—"
"Just for a little while. Please." Her hands fist in my shirt, holding me in place. "I know you have to go back. I know there's a war happening out there. But I need—" She breaks off, shaking her head. "I just need you. For a few minutes. Is that selfish?"
"Yes," I say honestly. "But I don't care."
I kiss her.
It starts gentle—soft, reassuring, a promise that we're both still here, still alive. But the adrenaline is still coursing through my veins, the fear and the fury and the desperate need to feel something other than the weight of command.
She responds in kind, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue sliding against my lips. The kiss deepens, becomes something else—hungry, desperate, two people clinging to each other in the eye of a storm.
"Misha," she breathes against my mouth. "I need you."
"Here?" I pull back, looking around the safe room—the concrete walls, the harsh fluorescent lights, the bank of monitors still showing camera feeds from around the estate. "This isn't—"
"I don't care where." She's already pulling at my shirt, her fingers working the buttons with trembling urgency. "I just need to feel you. I need to know this is real."
I should refuse. Should insist on propriety, on waiting until the battle is over, until we're somewhere more comfortable.
But she's looking at me with those gold-flecked eyes, her lips swollen from my kiss, her body pressed against mine—and I can't say no. I've never been able to say no to her.
I lift her onto the desk, scattering papers and knocking a keyboard to the floor. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, and I groan at the contact—at the heat of her, even through our clothes.
"We should be quick," I manage. "I can't be gone long—"
"Then stop talking."
She kisses me again, fierce and demanding, and I stop talking.
My hands find the hem of her sweater, pushing it up, revealing the soft skin beneath. She's not wearing a bra—she must have been sleeping when the assault started—and I groan at the sight of her breasts, full and perfect, her nipples already hard.
I bend my head and take one into my mouth, sucking, teasing with my tongue. She gasps, her back arching, her fingers tangling in my hair.
"Yes," she breathes. "God, yes—"
I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention, while my hands work at the button of her jeans. She lifts her hips to help me, and I drag the denim down her legs, taking her underwear with it.
She's wet. I can see it, glistening in the harsh light. Can smell her arousal, heady and intoxicating.
"Touch me," she demands. "Please, Misha—"
I slide one finger inside her, then two, and she moans—a sound that goes straight to my cock. She's tight and hot and perfect, her walls clenching around me as I work her with my hand.
"More," she gasps. "I need more—"
I withdraw my fingers and reach for my belt, fumbling with the buckle. She helps, her hands frantic, and then I'm free—hard and aching, desperate to be inside her.
I pause at her entrance, the head of my cock pressed against her slick heat.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Yes." She grabs my hips, pulling me forward. "Now. Please."
I thrust into her in one smooth motion, burying myself to the hilt. We both groan at the sensation—the stretch, the fullness, the connection.
For a moment, we're still. Just breathing. Just feeling.
Then she moves her hips, and I'm lost.
