He doesn't acknowledge the apology. He sits staring at the floor with his jaw clenched tightly. I don't know what else to do so I rinse the rag again and come back to finish cleaning his face. He lets me work without pulling away or telling me to stop.
"Do you want a drink?" I gesture toward the bottle on the table. "It might help."
"Yes," he grunts, then he watches me walk over and pour brandy into my empty glass.
I carry it back to him and hold it out. Before I can pull my hand away, he grabs my wrist again and tugs me closer. His other hand comes up to cup the back of my head and then he's kissing me hard enough to bruise my lips.
I make a surprised sound against his mouth, but I don't pull away. The brandy glass slips from my fingers and hits the floor. Liquid splashes across my feet and the tile, but I barely notice. His tongue pushes past my lips, and I taste copper and salt from his lips. He's a good kisser, and with this brandy buzzing around my head, it's not unpleasant.
When he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, his breathing is ragged and uneven. "You're intoxicating enough without the rakija."
My brain feels slow and fuzzy from the alcohol. I blink at him and try to process what just happened. He kissed me, actually kissed me like he wants me, and I don't really know why I didn't pull away or slap him. But I liked it. And I want to do it again.
I tip my lips up, slowly lowering myself until I straddle one knee and rest my weight on it. His breath is hot on my mouth, and then my neck, ghosting over my skin softly, but he doesn't touch me again. And here I am waiting. Isn't this what he wants from me? Or maybe it's the alcohol making me think this. But he kissed me first. Right?
"Vadim." His name comes out breathless as I splay a hand on his chest carefully, but even when I press my mouth to his, he doesn't kiss me again.
He pulls back slightly and his hands drop away from me. "You're drunk… You can't consent to this, Danica."
I don't know what comes over me, but anger surges up in my chest and I feel like slapping him. The goddamn yo-yo this man put me on is infuriating. I can't get a single one of his signals correct.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I stand and step back, crossing my arms. "You forced me to sleep in your bed last night but now you're worried about consent?"
He watches me with that infuriatingly calm expression. "This is different."
"How?" I can hear my voice rising but I can't stop it. "How is this different from anything else you've forced me to do?"
"Because it is." He shifts in the chair and winces. "If we do this, I need to know you actually want me… not because you're drunk."
I grab the brandy bottle from the table and refill my glass, then drain it in one gulp and slam it down hard enough that it's a miracle it doesn't shatter.
"Either you want me or you don't. Make up your damn mind." My words are slurring now and I know it probably sounds ridiculous, but he fucking married me. The least he can do is satisfy me when I have an urge. Especially when he's the one who gave me that urge.
"You don't know what you're doing right now." His voice is quiet but there's tension underneath it. "You're drunk."
"If I was too drunk to know what I'm doing, I'd be passed out on the floor." I straighten up and try to look more sober than I feel. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
He stands slowly and his eyes narrow on me as he takes a single step closer. The solid plane of muscle under his shirt shakes with his heartbeat, and I can't tell what he's going to do next.
"We're married, aren't we?" I twist the ring off my finger and slap it into his palm. "Or does this mean nothing to you?"
His fingers close around the ring and then around my wrist. He pulls me forward with more force than I expect, and I stumble into him. His mouth finds mine again, and this time, there's nothing gentle about it.
He kisses me like he's trying to consume me. His hand tangles in my hair and holds me in place while his tongue invades my mouth. I kiss him back just as hard and dig my fingers into his shoulders. He makes a sound low in his throat that vibrates through my chest violently as he slides the ring back on my finger like he's claiming me.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he growls, but I do. And I want it.
"Then show me," I tell him defiantly.
I stumble into him as he yanks me forward, my chest colliding with his body. His mouth slams down on mine again, and the kiss devours—lips bruising, tongue thrusting deep, tasting of blood and brandy. My fingers curl into the open edges of his shirt, gripping fabric and skin beneath, nails scraping as heat coils tight in my core.
I kiss him back with everything I have as anger fuels the fire, lust overriding every rational thought screaming that this man forced a ring on my finger earlier today.
He growls low in his throat, and the vibration travels straight to my clit. His hand fists my hair, pulling my head back to angle me deeper into the kiss while his other hand grips my hip hard while he grinds his pelvis on my thigh.
Then he releases my wrist and steps back, leaning against the counter to watch. "Undress for me. Show me everything." At first, I stand there shocked. This isn't how it's supposed to go, right? I mean, he's supposed to undress me passionately and then come at me. Not this.
But I don't want to do what he's been doing and send him mixed signals.
