"Again."
"I'm yours, Renat." My hands find the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. I need to feel his skin, need to prove to myself that he's real, that this is real. "I'm yours."
He pulls back just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then his hands are on me, sliding under my t-shirt, his palms hot against my ribs.
I arch into his touch, and he makes that sound again, that desperate, hungry groan that makes me feel powerful despite everything.
"You're so soft," he murmurs, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. "So perfect."
I reach for my shirt, but his hands stop me.
"No." His eyes are molten in the soft glow of the room. "I want to do it. I want to unwrap you like a gift."
He takes his time, sliding the fabric up inch by inch, his fingers trailing over my skin as he goes. By the time he pulls the shirt over my head, I'm trembling.
I'm wearing a plain cotton bra, nothing sexy or special. But the way he looks at me, you'd think I was wearing the sexiest lingerie.
"Bozhe," he breathes. "You're going to destroy me."
I reach behind myself and unhook the bra, pulling it off. "Then we'll be even."
His eyes go impossibly darker, and before I can process what's happening, he's moving. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, positioning me so I'm straddling his lap, my chest pressed against his.
I gasp at the contact, and he captures the sound with another kiss. His hands roam my back, my sides, everywhere he can reach, like he's trying to memorize the shape of me.
When his fingers brush over my nipples, I break the kiss with a whimper.
"Sensitive," he observes, doing it again. Deliberately. Watching my face as pleasure shoots through me.
"Renat—"
"Say it again."
"I'm yours." The words come easier now. Like truth. Like prayer. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours."
He captures one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, and I arch against him with a moan. His hand finds my other breast, pinching and rolling until I'm writhing in his lap, grinding against the hard length of him through his jeans.
"Please," I gasp. "Please, I need—"
He switches to my other breast, his teeth grazing sensitive flesh. "Tell me what you need. Let me hear it."
"You. I need you."
He pulls back, his breathing ragged. "I don’t think I can be gentle. I'll try, but..."
"I don't want gentle." And it's true. I want him to make me forget. Want him to consume me until there's no room for guilt or fear or anything but this. "I want you to make me yours."
Something feral crosses his face. "Lie back."
I do, my head hitting the pillow as he looms over me. He makes quick work of my panties, sliding them down my legs until I'm completely bare beneath him.
He sits back on his heels, just looking at me. Then he lifts my knees and parts my legs. I should feel exposed. Vulnerable. Instead, I feel desired in a way I've never experienced before.
"Beautiful," he says, his voice reverent. "So fucking beautiful."
Then he's leaning forward between my thighs, bracing himself on his hands either side of my body, his mouth trailing down my stomach, my hip, my inner thigh. When he settles between my legs, I realize what he's about to do.
"Wait, you don't have to—"
