He looks beautiful.
Beautiful in that raw, male, powerful way that makes my stomach flutter.
I shouldn’t stare.
I definitely shouldn’t crave touching him again when I can barely move without remembering exactly how hard he held me, how deep he—
Damn. I’m thirsty. And not for water.
I let my gaze travel down his torso. Over the ridges of his abdomen. Lower. My face grows hotter at the direction of my thoughts.
“You like what you see,lepestok?”
I gasp in surprise.
He’s awake. Has been awake, probably, watching me ogle him like he’s some sinful dessert.
“I—” I trail off, then shrug, ignoring my embarrassment to smile teasingly at him. “Maybe.”
His lips curve in a slow, wicked smile. “Maybe?”
I swallow. “Okay,” I whisper. “Yes.”
“Good.” His voice drops another octave. “Because you don’t have to just look.”
My breath catches.
His eyes open, dark and heavy with sleep and want as they lock onto mine. He reaches up, brushes a finger along my cheek, then trails it down my throat, my collarbone, lower, until his hand settles warm on my hip.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
I shift closer instinctively, the blanket slipping, exposing more of my skin to his touch. He guides my hand with his, lifting it, placing it on his chest.
“Touch me,” he says softly. “I want you to.”
I blink up at him.
“Viktor…”
“You were mine last night,” he whispers, voice a gentle growl. “But I’m yours every morning you wake up beside me.”
Heat rushes through me so quickly I almost melt into the mattress.
With shaky fingers, I slide my hand over his chest. His muscles tighten under my touch. His breath deepens—not quite a groan, but close.
I trace over the curve of his shoulder. Down the line of his bicep. His skin is warm, firm, silky-smooth in some places, scarred in others. I trail the pad of my thumb over a long, faded scar near his ribs.
“What happened here?” I ask quietly.
He smiles faintly. “Just another fight.” His hand covers mine, holding it there. “Nothing that matters anymore.”
I keep exploring, trailing my hand down his abdomen. Each ridge rises under my palm. He watches me—intently, hungrily, almost reverently. Like my touch is something he’s been starving for. I slide my hand lower, just above the blanket and his breath quickens.
“Natalya…” he warns softly, though it’s not a real warning. More like a plea.
“I—” I trail off, running my tongue over my lips like that’d quench the sudden dryness in my throat. “Can I touch you?”
“Damn right you can,” he growls, his eyes flaring with something dark, and incredibly hot.
