“No.” The word was flat, but I caught the subtle shift in his stance, like my worry unsettled him more than the violence he’d left behind.
For a long, heavy moment, we stared at each other. I felt bare beneath his gaze, like he was at war with something inside himself. A deep, low sound rolled out of his chest, almost animalistic.
Then his hand lifted slowly, deliberately, giving me time to pull away. I didn’t. His thumb brushed my cheek once, roughagainst my skin, and when he pulled his hand back, I saw his fingers curl into a fist.
His thumb was still warm where it had touched me, as if the contact had cost him something he wasn’t used to spending. He didn’t look away when I met his gaze, but his jaw flexed tightly.
“I don’t touch people,” he breathed, not as a warning but a fact. “Not like that.”
My heart picked up at his admission. “I know,” I whispered.
His eyes darkened, something dangerous shifting there. Not comfort or reassurance. But possession, raw and unfiltered.
“I don’t think you understand what that means,” he said. “What it does. What it costs.”
“I don’t understand?” I breathed.
“It means anyone who thinks they can come between us won’t live long enough to regret it.”
The space between us disappeared. He stepped in, bracing one hand on the cot beside my hip as his body caged me in. Every inch of him was restraint held by force, not hesitation. His mouth hovered just above mine, breath steady and deliberate.
“Tell me to stop,” he said low, not because he needed permission, but because once he crossed this line, there would be no pretending it didn’t matter.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t speak. That was enough.
His mouth came down on mine hard, claiming rather than asking. The kiss was deep and uncompromising, all control and intent, as if he were staking ground he had no intention of surrendering. There was no gentleness, no apology. Just certainty.
I gasped, hands fisting in his shirt without realizing it, and the sound that tore from his chest was rough, dragged out like he hadn’t meant to let it escape. His hand slid down my spine, firm and possessive, anchoring me at the small of my back as if he refused to let me move even an inch.
“Zoya,” he groaned against my mouth, my name stripped raw and unguarded.
My body reacted instantly. Heat bloomed low in my belly, sharp and insistent, nerves sparking in ways I didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore. I was already wet; the dampness seeping through my pants.
He felt it. I knew he had. In the way my breath hitched, the tremors I couldn’t hide, the way my hips shifted toward him without permission. Dmitry knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he took control without asking.
He leaned in, mouth brushing my ear. “I can’t help myself,” he muttered, as if the words were ripped from him. “You’re already wet for me, Zoya. This untouched body reacting to nothing but my hands.”
I moaned softly; the sound escaping before I could stop it. I’d never had anyone speak to me like that, vulgar and unapologetic, and it made my pulse race.
He moved back, lips hovering near mine, his movements never rushing. “You don’t need to understand what I’m doing to you,” he said. “You just need to stay still and let it happen.”
God… I wanted this to happen though, and he knew that. He could feel it in the way I trembled and hear it in the way I moaned.
His voice dropped even lower. “You’re shaking,” he observed, like a fact, not a concern. “That tells me everything I need to know.” His grip tightened on my waist. “I should stop,” he said, darker now. “But I won’t. You’re mine to touch. Mine to claim.”
The promise carried the same edge as everything else about him. He could destroy things and still be careful when it mattered.
His hand slid down my stomach, slow and deliberate, before easing beneath the waistband of my sweats. His knee nudgedbetween my legs, opening me, and I let him. He exposed me to the cool air.
I gasped when his fingers brushed my bare skin. He started light, spreading the slickness he’d drawn from me, his thumb circling once, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Look at me,” he ordered quietly. “Let me see what this does to you.”
Our gazes locked. His thumb pressed firmer, rubbing steady circles as one thick finger teased my entrance without pushing inside. He made me wait, let me feel it, let me understand who was in control.
When he finally slid that finger into me, I gasped, and he growled.
“So tight,” he muttered. “I’m going to make you ready.” He bared his teeth, and it was clear he was trying so hard to stay in control. “This is restraint,” he whispered in a voice so deep and gruff it made me visibly shake. “Don’t confuse it for mercy.”
