God, he smells amazing. So masculine. His scent reminds me of peppermint—fresh, but there's an undertone of darkness I can’t quite put a finger on.
Whatever it is, it’s enough for me to want him again.
My core burns for him like a volcano about to erupt.
Which is exactly why I need him to leave before I rip off my panties, open my legs, and let him plant a second Bratva baby in me.
God, why does that sound so tempting?
The pull we have is too strong, and I know he feels it too. His scent washes over me once again, making me lightheaded. I have to take a step back against the wall and stabilize my body.
“You like being pressed up against the wall, don’t you?” He arches a dark eyebrow.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “No.”
“Then how come we always end up in this position?”
Damn him!
I drop eye contact.
There’s nowhere to look but at his crotch, and I see his dick straining against his tight suit pants. It’s been three weeks since our ‘encounter’ and I hate that they were the longest three weeks of my life. I went to bed thinking about him more times than I’d like to admit. I pleasured myself thinking about him more times than I’d like to admit. I invested in a good dildo a few years back after reaching the conclusion that it’s simply impossible to have a satisfying orgasm with a man. It’s worked wonders for years, until Nikolai Rogov came along.
I was hoping that our hookup would give me clarity, dampen the sexual tension, but it only made things worse.
I want him even more now.
And if that’s not enough, I’m pregnant with his child.
“You want to control,” he continues, his breath hot on my neck. “But deep down, I think you have a kink for submission.”
“Excuse me?” I snap.
“What do you want?” He slides his hands down to his waist, teasing the belt. My eyes trail down, watching, my heart rate spiking.
“I want you to—”
“Leave?” His dangerous eyes search my face. “Then why are you soaking down there?” He raises a finger and caresses my cheek. “Don’t think I don’t know.”
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit!
This is all too much. The raspy, Russian accent; the dark demeanor. My lips tingle for his. My gaze lands on his lips and I rise onto my tiptoes hoping to bring our mouths together.
But nothing happens.
Nothing happens, because he pulls away, the bastard. He looks at me one last time, smirks, then opens the door and walksout. It slams behind him, the sound echoing in my living room and around my disappointed body.
Just like that.
Damn you, Nikolai Rogov!
Not knowing what to do with myself, I remain by the wall, the sweat on my forehead turning cold. I should be grateful that he left before we could get too carried away again. But I’m not. It feels like a loss.
And if that’s not enough, I humiliated myself by going in for a kiss. Because now, the truth is exposed.
