“Yes.”
“Eyes on me.”
She locks her gaze onto mine, and I can see everything. The terror, the relief, the need that’s been building since I walked out of that SUV and toward the cabin. I kiss her throat and feel her pulse slamming under my lips.
She pulls my shirt over my head, careful around the bandage, and presses her palm flat against my chest. I undo the buttons on her shirt one-handed, fumbling the third one before she reaches down and finishes the job. The fabric falls open, and I drag it off her shoulders. Her bra is plain white cotton, nothing designed to seduce, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen because she’s alive and sitting in my lap with her heart racing against mine.
I unclasp her bra and toss it aside. She molds against me, bare skin to bare skin, and the contact punches the breath from bothof us. I cup her breast with my good hand and drag my thumb across her nipple. She gasps and arches into my palm.
“Get on the table,” I tell her.
She pulls back far enough to read my face. Whatever she finds there makes her obey without a word. She climbs off my lap, clears the med kit aside, and pushes herself onto the edge of the table in front of me. I’m still sitting in the chair, and now, she’s at eye level with her knees parted.
I scoot the chair forward and settle between her legs. My hands find her waistband, and I tug her leggings and underwear down her thighs in one pull. She lifts her hips to help, and I drag the fabric to her ankles and toss it on the floor.
“Tell me yes,” I prompt, because I will ask every time, no matter how desperate the moment gets.
“Yes.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Please, Pyotr.”
I press my mouth to the inside of her knee. She jolts at the contact, and I feel the tremor. I kiss my way up the inside of her thigh, tasting salt and skin and the faint copper tang of adrenaline. She braces her hands behind her on the table and leans back, giving me room.
When I reach the crease where her thigh meets her hip, I stop. She makes a sound low in her throat, half-protest, half-plea.
“Eyes on me, golubka.”
She drops her chin and meets my gaze. Her eyes are glassy with tears she still hasn’t shed, and underneath the tears is something fiercer that dares me to make her forget the past six hours.
I hold her stare and press my mouth against her center.
She cries out, and her hand flies to my hair. I grab her thigh with my good hand and pull her closer to the edge of the table, spreading her wider. She’s soaked, and the taste of her floods my tongue the same way it does every time, like something I’ll never get enough of, no matter how many times she lets me have her.
I work her with long, slow strokes at first, taking my time, and mapping every reaction. Her hips roll toward my face, chasing the pressure, and I let her. Tonight isn’t about making her wait; it’s about proving we’re both still here.
“Pyotr—” My name breaks apart in her mouth.
I circle her clit with the tip of my tongue and feel her thighs clamp against my ears. She’s trembling everywhere. I slide two fingers inside her, and she’s so wet that they meet no resistance. I curl them forward, searching for the spot I’ve memorized, and when I find it, she nearly comes off the table.
“Oh, God?—”
“Stay with me.” I press my palm flat against her stomach to hold her down. “Right here.”
I seal my mouth over her clit and suck while my fingers drive into her in a steady rhythm. Her back arches off the table, and the sounds pouring from her lips are broken and beautiful and nothing like the controlled woman I’ve come to know. This is Daria with every wall down and pretense gone. Just need and relief and the desperate proof that we survived.
Her inner walls clench around my fingers. I feel the moment she tips over.
“Look at me,” I order. “I want to see you.”
She forces her eyes open, and I hold her gaze while the orgasm tears through her. She screams my name so loudly that Grisha probably hears it on the porch. I work her through every wave, every aftershock, drawing it out until she’s gasping and boneless against the table with her fingers still tangled in my hair.
Then, I kiss the inside of her thigh, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and stand.
She’s sprawled across the kitchen table, her chest heaving, and her skin flushed from her throat to her navel. She looks wrecked. She looks perfect.
“Come here,” she whispers, and reaches for my belt.
Her hands are still shaking, but she gets the buckle open and drags my pants down. I kick them aside, and she wraps her legs around my hips and pulls me between her thighs. I brace my good arm on the table beside her head and line myself up.
“Still good?”
