“I don’t—” My protest dies as he slides one finger inside me, and my back arches off the bed.
“Don’t what?” He adds a second finger, stretching me, filling me. His thumb finds my clit and circles it with maddening precision. “Don’t want me to touch you like this? Don’t want me to make you come?”
I can’t answer. Can’t think. I can only feel as he works me with his fingers, building the pressure inside me until I’m trembling on the edge.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his lips against my neck. “Let go. Show me how much you hate me.”
The orgasm crashes over me like a wave, and I cry out, my body convulsing around his fingers.
Pleasure floods through me, so intense it’s almost painful, and I hate that he’s the one giving it to me.
Hate that my body responds to him like this.
Before I can recover, Mikhail is stripping off his own clothes.
I watch through half-lidded eyes as he reveals a body that looks carved from marble.
Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that ripple with each movement.
Scars mark his skin, evidence of a violent life, but they only make him more devastating to me.
When he pushes his pants down, I see just how much he wants this. How much he wants me.
“See what you do to me?” He positions himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. “Even knowing who you are, what your father did, I still want to bury myself inside you.”
“Then you’re as much a monster as you claim my father was,” I whisper.
Something flashes in his eyes—pain, maybe, or recognition—but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by cold determination.
“Yes,” he agrees. “I am.”
He thrusts into me in one brutal stroke, and I cry out at the invasion.
He’s big, stretching me almost to the point of pain, and my body struggles to accommodate him.
But even as I gasp and claw at his shoulders, my inner walls clench around him, pulling him deeper.
“Fuck,” Mikhail groans, his forehead dropping to mine. “So tight. So perfect.”
He doesn’t give me time to adjust.
He pulls out almost completely and slams back in, setting a punishing rhythm that has me gasping with each thrust.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me in place as he takes what he wants.
God help me, I meet him thrust for thrust.
My legs wrap around his waist, my nails rake down his back, and I kiss him with all the hatred and desire warring inside me.
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
But my body doesn’t care about right or wrong.
It only cares about the pleasure building inside me again, coiling tighter with each stroke.
“Say my name,” Mikhail demands, his voice rough. “Say it.”
“No.”
