His palm is warm against my stomach, his fingers splaying across my ribs.
When his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, I bite back a moan.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Stop fighting what you feel.”
“I hate you.” The words come out breathless, unconvincing.
“Good.” He captures my mouth again, swallowing my protests. “Hate me all you want. It won’t change what’s about to happen.”
He strips my shirt over my head with practiced efficiency, and I should cover myself, should try to preserve some shred of dignity.
But I don’t.
I just lie there as his gaze rakes over me, taking in my simple cotton bra, my flushed skin, my rapid breathing.
“Beautiful,” he says, and there’s something almost reverent in his tone. It doesn’t match the cold vengeance in his eyes. “Wasted on a Moretti.”
Before I can respond, he’s unhooking my bra and tossing it aside.
Cool air hits my exposed skin, and my nipples tighten.
Mikhail makes a sound low in his throat.
Is it approval, possession, hunger?
Then he lowers his head.
When his mouth closes over my breast, I cry out.
The sensation is overwhelming—his tongue circling my nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, his hand kneading my other breast with just the right amount of pressure.
Heat pools between my legs, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ignore the ache building there.
Mikhail notices. Of course he does.
“Spread your legs,” he commands against my skin.
“No.”
His hand slides down my stomach and cups me through my jeans.
Even through the denim, I can feel the heat of his palm, and I have to bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
“Spread. Your. Legs.” Each word is punctuated by pressure against my core, and my body responds despite my mind’s protests.
I hate myself as my thighs fall open.
“Good girl.” The praise shouldn’t affect me, but it does. It sends a shiver down my spine and makes the ache between my legs intensify.
He makes quick work of my jeans and panties, stripping them off and tossing them aside.
Now I’m completely naked beneath him while he’s still fully dressed, and the power imbalance should terrify me.
Instead, it makes me wetter.
What is wrong with me?
Mikhail’s hand slides between my thighs. When his fingers find how wet I am, he groans. “Your body doesn’t lie, Sophia. You want this. You want me.”
