The kiss is brutal, claiming, our teeth clashing as we fight for dominance.
His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him, and the hard pressure of his cock is a testament of how much he wants me. My nails rake down his back through his shirt.
I want to mark him, to hurt him the way he’s hurt me.
He breaks the kiss and spins me around, pressing me against the wall beside the fireplace.
The stone is cool against my heated skin as he pins my wrists above my head with one hand.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he growls against my neck, his free hand sliding under my dress.
“I don’t—” The lie dies as his fingers find me through my panties, and I gasp.
“Liar.” His teeth graze my earlobe. “You’re already wet for me.”
I hate that he’s right.
Hate that my body betrays me every time he touches me.
But I can’t stop the moan that escapes when he pushes my panties aside and slides two fingers inside me.
“Mikhail,” I breathe, my head falling back against his shoulder.
“That’s right. Say my name.” He works me with his fingers, his thumb circling my clit with maddening precision. “Let everyone in this house know who makes you feel this way.”
The orgasm builds quickly, coiling tight in my core. I’m so close, trembling on the edge, when he suddenly stops and withdraws his hand.
“No,” I whimper, loathing how desperate I sound.
He releases my wrists and turns me to face him. His green eyes are dark with desire, his breathing as ragged as mine. “Bed. Now.”
I should refuse. Should make him work for it. But I’m already moving toward the bed, my legs unsteady.
He follows, stripping off his shirt as he walks.
The firelight plays across his muscled chest, highlighting the scars and scabs marking his skin.
Each one tells a story of violence, of survival, of a life I’m only beginning to understand.
When he reaches me, he’s gentle as he unzips my dress and lets it pool at my feet.
His hands skim over my skin, raising goosebumps in their wake.
This tenderness is somehow more devastating than his roughness.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck. “So perfect.”
He lays me on the bed and takes his time removing my bra and panties, his eyes drinking in every inch of exposed skin.
When I’m finally naked beneath him, he just looks at me for a long moment.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“I’m memorizing you.” His voice is rough with emotion. “Every curve. Every freckle. The way you look at me like you can’t decide if you want to kill me or kiss me.”
“Both,” I admit. “Always both.”
He smiles, and it transforms his face. For a moment, I see the man he might have been if violence hadn’t shaped him. If grief hadn’t hardened him.
