“Now, should I start with you lying on your back in my bed with your legs spread or put you over my knee first for a dose of what you really need,” he warned and I couldn’t help it as my hand drew backwards to slap him once more.
Wait.
Like for a spanking?
Fuck.
Why was my pussy clenching at the thought of him doing exactly that, of him taking me over his knee and spanking my ass until it was bright red and hot?
I shook my head, not choosing either.Because he was the enemy. Because this was wrong.
Because if I let him, I was going to enjoy it.
His lips twitched into a slow, dangerous smile. “Slap me again if you need me to take these clothes off you.”
My breath caught in my throat. The challenge was there, hanging in the air between us, thick with unspoken promises. He was daring me, pushing me, testing the limits of my anger and my control. He knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard. He knew that slapping him would be an admission. He was twisting me in knots so that what Ishoulddo, slapping the domineering sneer off his impossibly handsome face, would just be me giving him permission.
My gaze flickered down to my jacket, to the simple shirt beneath. He was right. The clothes felt like armor, a barrier between the soldier I was supposed to be and the woman I was trying to forget. The thought of him peeling them away, of those rough hands on my skin, was terrifying. And exhilarating.
The slap came before I could stop it.
It wasn’t as hard as the others, but still, the crack echoed in the quiet room, a damning soundof my own unmaking. My palm stung, and I was suddenly, painfully aware of the heat blooming in my cheeks.
Viktor didn’t so much as flinch. He just watched me, a dark heated gleam in his eyes that told me I had just made a fatal mistake.
A fatal,wonderfulmistake.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, the words a triumphant rasp. He shifted, moving over me with an unhurried grace that was more intimidating than any sudden movement. His knees nudged my thighs apart. “I know you’re angry,kotenok. But that slap wasn’t just anger, was it?”
His fingers came up, not to strike me, but to trace the line of my jaw. A feather-light touch that made every nerve in my body stand up and scream.
“You slapped me because you’re losing control,” he continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “And you hate it. But you also hate that you want me to take you as I see fit.” His gaze dropped, lingering on my chest where my breath had quickened, making the fabric of my shirt pull taut. “I know what to do with beautiful tits like these. I know that just enough of you wants me to tear this shirt right down the middle so I can see them.”
His words were a like a firebrand, searing through the last of my resistance. I was a soldier. I was trained to withstand interrogation, to resist coercion, to withstand physical pain. But this… this was something else entirely. This was an assault on the very foundation of who I thought I was, and it was working. The shame of my body’s betrayal was a like a hot rush of magma rising in my throat.
My hand twitched, wanting to push him away, to claw at that smug, beautiful face, but it remained limp at my side. My body had mutinied against me and there was no turning back now.
“See?” he said, a wickedly devastating smile on his lips. “You’re already mine.”
Then he moved, and the slow, terrifying anticipation shattered into a whirlwind of action. He didn’t rip the shirt as he’d threatened. No, that would have been too quick, too merciful.
As the seconds slowly passed, it soon became clear that he intended to savor every last moment of this. My coat was first, but he was gentle when he pushed the woolen fabric over myshoulders and then down my arms. Then his hands went to the hem of my shirt, and in one fluid, economical motion, he pulled it up and over my head. The fabric whispered against my skin, and then it was gone, tossed aside like an afterthought.
My bra was next. Simple, black, functional. It offered no adornment, no illusion of femininity, but in his eyes, by the way he was looking at me right now, it might as well have been lace. He reached behind me, and the snap came open with a soft click. The straps slid down my arms next, and then that, too, was gone.
My breathing went shallow. The air in the room was cool against my bare skin, raising goosebumps. I felt exposed, vulnerable, laid bare not just in body, but in spirit. I fought. Not with my hands, not with words, but with my gaze. I stared at him, a challenge in my eyes, a promise of retribution. I was a soldier. I would not be broken.
His eyes, dark and hungry, roamed over me. There was no mockery in his gaze, only an openly undisguised appreciation that was somehow more humiliating than any insult could have ever been. He saw my scars. The thin, silvery lines on my ribs, the puckered bullet wound on my shoulder. They were souvenirs from a war that had taken everything from me. He saw them all, and he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He simply saw them as part of me, another piece of the puzzle he was so determined to solve.
“Beautiful,” he breathed.
His hands came up, not to touch, but to frame around me. His fingers traced the air just above my skin, a phantom caress that was more potent than a real touch. He followed the line of my collarbone, the curve of my waist, the swell of my hip. His gaze was a tactile thing, a brand that seared me from the inside out. Icould feel the heat of it, the intensity of it, and it was making me tremble.
He was learning me. Mapping me. Memorizing me.
And I was letting him.
His fingers finally made contactat thehollow of my throat. His thumb brushed against my pulse point, a steady, frantic rhythm against the pad of his finger. He could feel my fear. He could feel my desire. He could feel the war raging inside me.
