His hand is large and warm. Calloused in a way that speaks of violence and hard work.
It spreads across my ribcage, and something ignites inside me that I don’t want to feel. That I shouldn’t feel.
He’s the enemy. He hates me. I should be repulsed.
But when he pulls me against him—when the heat of his body presses against mine and the masculine scent of him surrounds me—I gasp despite myself.
My body arches into him instinctively, seeking that warmth, that contact, even as my mind screams that this is wrong.
“You’re mine now,” he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. His hand slides up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. “Legally. Completely.Mine. Say it.”
Refuse,Vera, my brain orders me. I need to fight and do anything but give him what he wants.
But something about the command—about the possessiveness in his voice, the way his hand tightens in my hair—does something to me I don’t understand.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
And I hate myself for it.
What follows isn’t gentle or sweet. It’s nothing like the tender, loving encounters I had with Alexei.
Dimitri’s lips cover mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth and setting my whole body on fire. I—I wasn’t expecting that.
I hadn’t expected the flush of heat that courses through my body in response to him and I hadn’t expected to find myself bringing my own hands up, curling around his bare hips.
Touching his skin makes me feel funny inside.
I try not to think more about that feeling, especially when I hear the pathetic whimper that escapes me when he pulls away from my lips to trail a line of burning kisses, licks and nips down my throat, his hands leaving my hair to yank down my lingerie.
I dig my nails into his hips when he brutally nips my collarbone, his hands trailing over my body to cup my breasts.
I grit my teeth, trying to bite back a moan of pleasure when he begins rolling my nipples between his fingers, pinching just enough to smart but not enough to truly hurt.
I hate myself when the moan escapes anyway and when I find my hands making short work of the fastenings of his pants.
Think of Alexei, I tell myself.Imagine that it’s his mouth and hands on you.
But it’s hard to think of him when Dimitri is so different.
Dimitri shrugs off his pants effortlessly and presses himself against me and JesusChrist, the feel of his rock hard cock against me is nearly my undoing.
My hands fist in the sheets beneath me, then slide up to grip his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle and raised scars under my palms, pulling him closer even as my mind screams that I should be pushing him away.
I’m terrified. Of him. Of this. Of the intensity of what I’m feeling.
But underneath the fear is something raw and shameful.
Something that responds to his touch in ways that horrify me.
My body wants this even as my mind screams that it shouldn’t.
He's whispering things against my skin—dark, possessive things about ownership and belonging—and instead of being repulsed, I feel desire pooling in my core.
“Every part of you belongs to me now,” he growls against my throat, his hands everywhere, mapping my body like he’s memorizing it. “Every inch. Every breath. Mine.”
I should hate it. I should hate him.
But I don’t. I can’t.
