Without thinking, I reached out and caught his wrist. “Stay.”
The word hung between us, both question and command. I felt his pulse thrum beneath my fingers, quick and strong.
Ivan stood perfectly still, looking down at me with an intensity that made me hold my breath. “Do we need to have this conversation again? Do you really think that’s wise?” His voice was rough, strained with something he was fighting to control. Attraction? Desire?
My heart raced as I considered the implications of what I was asking. I’d known this man for less than two weeks. He’d kidnapped me, threatened my family, was working for the man who’d drugged and interrogated me. By any rational measure, this was insanity.
Yet in the short time I’d known him, Ivan had also protected me, cared for me when I was injured, shared his painful past, and looked at me as if he really saw me, even before he knew my name.
In this moment, with the weight of everything standing between us, wisdom suddenly seemed overrated.
“Probably not,” I admitted, not letting go of his wrist. “But it’s what I want.”
Something flickered in his eyes—hunger, hesitation, hope—before he carefully sat on the edge of the bed, his body a study in controlled tension. He was keeping himself tightly leashed, maintaining a careful distance even as he complied with my wish and stayed.
I pushed myself up and rose to a sitting position on the mattress, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching. The shirt I wore—still his shirt, since I didn’t change into my own shirt—gaped slightly at the movement.
His eyes zoomed to my exposed cleavage before he dragged them back up.
“What are you afraid of, Zotov?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper in the quiet room.
His eyes tracked the movement of my lips, then rose to meet my gaze with startling honesty. “Losing control.”
Two simple words, yet they carried the weight of his entire history—the child with no control, forced to fight for survival—the man who’d built his life around discipline, restraint, and tight control on everything in his environment. I understood suddenly that his control wasn’t just about power; it was about survival.
I placed my palm against his cheek, feeling his jaw clench beneath my touch. The rough stubble scratched against my skin, a subtle reminder of his raw masculinity. He remained perfectly still, like a predator unsure whether to pounce or retreat.
“What if I want you to let go?” I challenged softly, surprised by my own boldness. “What if I want you to lose control?”
Before I could reconsider, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. This kiss was gentle at first, exploratory, so different from the angry clash in the security office but also different from the kiss in the bathtub.
He tensed, his body going completely rigid as if fighting some internal battle, but he didn’t retreat. For three heartbeats, he remained still as stone. Then something inside him snapped.
With a low growl that vibrated through my entire body, he seized control first of the kiss, then of me. He tangled one hand in my hair while the other wrapped around my waist, pulling me roughly against him. The gentleness vanished, replaced by a hunger that stole my breath.
He claimed me with his mouth on mine with bruising intensity, demanding rather than asking.
The sudden shift from restraint to unleashed passion was dizzying and thrilling. His tongue swept against my tongue, tasting, taking, possessing.
For a moment, panic flashed through me—memories of unwanted touches, of casual hookups, who saw me as a quick lay, an object to be used rather than a person to be cherished. My body tensed involuntarily—a lifetime of a habit protecting me.
Ivan felt the change immediately. He pulled back, his breathing ragged, eyes searching my face. “Isabella,” he said, my full name an unfamiliar caress on his lips. “Let’s stop. Right now.”
The concern in his eyes, the way he immediately gave me space despite his obvious desire—it was so different from anything I’d experienced before. This man, this situation wasn’t about power, control, or taking. This was about choice—my choice.
I deliberately relaxed into his embrace, letting the tensionflow out of my body. “I want this,” I whispered against his mouth.
Something dark and primal flashed in his eyes. “Tell me what you want exactly,” he demanded, his voice rough with need. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I want us,” I said, holding his gaze. “Together. I want you. All of you. Inside of me.”
His control was shattered completely. He flipped us over until my back hit the mattress and he was kneeling between my thighs. “Last chance to tell me to stop,” he growled, his body tense above mine.
Instead of answering, I pulled him closer.
Ivan crashed his lips down on mine, no longer holding anything back. His hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of my neck, grasping my throat, sliding beneath the collar of my—his—shirt in search of bare skin. Each touch left a trail of fire in its wake, stoking my burning desire.
He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, shifted his pelvis down, and wedged himself between my thighs until he rubbed his hard jeans-clad cock against my pussy.
