I drag in a breath and try again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”
The last word sounds bitter even to my own ears.
His expression changes at that. Something in him tightens visibly. Then he crosses the room.
Before I can think, before I can step back, his hand is at my waist and the other is cupping my jaw, tipping my face up. My breath catches hard.
And then his mouth is on mine.
It isn’t gentle.
It’s hot and immediate and hungry, like he’s been holding himself back for hours and finally stopped trying. My back hits the bathroom counter with a soft thud, the marble cool against my hips, and he crowds in close, sealing me there with the hard line of his body.
I make a startled sound against his lips, but it melts into a moan almost instantly.
He kisses me like he means to erase every other thought in my head. Deep, filthy, unapologetic. His tongue slides into my mouth, and I clutch at his jacket, fingers twisting in the fabric as if I need something to hold onto.
“Aleksei—”
He kisses me again before I can say anything else, one hand sliding from my jaw into my hair, fisting it lightly, tipping my head exactly where he wants it. The angle makes the kiss even deeper, dirtier. My knees go weak.
His other hand grips my hip, then skims up the side of my dress, fingers splaying over my waist before sliding lower again, dragging fire everywhere they touch.
“Watching me with her,” he murmurs against my mouth, voice rough. “Is that what upset you?”
I can’t answer. Not honestly.
He takes my silence for what it is and kisses me harder.
My body arches into his before I can stop myself. He’s everywhere. The scent of him, the weight of him, the rough scrape of his jaw against my skin as his mouth leaves mine and trails down to my throat. I gasp as he bites lightly at the sensitive spot below my ear, and his hand tightens on my waist like he likes hearing me fall apart.
“I should go back out there,” he says, low and dangerous against my neck.
But he doesn’t move.
Instead, he presses his thigh between my legs, and I suck in a sharp breath as the friction hits exactly where I need it. Heat flashes through me so hard it’s almost painful. My hands slide up into his hair, ruining it, not caring.
“You came in here instead,” I whisper.
He lifts his head. His eyes are dark, burning, fixed on my mouth.
“Yes.”
Then he kisses me again, and this time there’s no hesitation left in either of us.
He pins me to the counter with one hand braced beside my hip, the other sliding down between us. His fingers skim the hem of my dress, then push higher, gathering the fabric, his knuckles brushing the inside of my thigh. My whole body jolts.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice raw.
But the hand on my thigh keeps moving.
He doesn’t want me to stop him. He wants permission to ruin me.
My head tips back against the mirror as his fingers reach the top of my stocking and then find bare skin above it. I’m already shaking.
“I’m not going to tell you that,” I breathe.
Something like satisfaction flashes in his face. “Good.”
