The sound shatters the lazy quiet of the villa.
Aleksandr glances up from his page, brows pulling together, his beautiful stormy grey eyes pinning me in place. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, hugging the book tighter to my lap, praying my face isn’t as red as it feels.
“Moya.” He draws the word out, soft and edged with curiosity, and it makes my pulse skip.
“It’s just—just a book,” I stammer, trying to slide my bookmark in and close it, but he’s already moving.
Before I can protest, he’s on his feet, crossing the room with that quiet, predatory grace. My heart trips over itself as he stops in front of me and simply takes the book from my hands.
“Aleksandr!”
He ignores me completely, flipping it open with a thumb and skimming the page I was on. His brows lift, his mouth tilts into something slow and dangerous, and when his eyes meet mine again there’s a new heat there.
“Are you sitting here reading smut,Moya?” His voice is low, threaded with something dark that sends a shiver straight down my spine.
I swallow hard, but it’s useless—he can already read everything written across my face. “It’s a book.”
“A book you’re reading during your honeymoon, Moya,” Aleksandr rasps, leaning over me. One hand braces on the arm of my chair, the other on the back, caging me in. The scent of him—cedar, salt, and dark heat—wraps around me until I’m dizzy on nothing but him.
“Well, I was promised to be yours,” I whisper, my voice barely holding steady, “and since I’m apparently not…I will be Killian’s.”
His head tilts, eyes narrowing with that sharp, dangerous amusement that makes my stomach flip. “Is Killian up there with Edward?”
“He is not,” I say, holding his gaze, trying for brave as I tap my pen against his chest. “Edward is the man you marry. Killian is the man you fuck.”
“Oh, really?” The sound that leaves him is low, a snarl wrapped in a chuckle, and I feel every syllable in my bones. “And who am I?”
He tosses it carelessly onto the coffee table, leaning in closer, so close my thoughts scatter like frightened birds.
“Well…” I manage, my throat dry, “you’re…more Edward.”
“And why is that?” His voice dips even lower, dangerous now, as if the air itself is leaning in to hear me.
“Because,” I breathe, pulse hammering in my ears, “you’re not fucking me.”
A shift flashes across his expression—deep and electric—and before I can take another breath, he bends closer, his massive frame folding toward me. His hands slide to my knees and with one firm, unhurried motion, he spreads my thighs wide. My breath catches, sharp and helpless.
He kneels between them, every inch of him crowding out the rest of the world, and lowers his mouth until it’s a whisper away from my ear. “I thought you wanted me to be a gentleman,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath skimming my skin. “I thought you wanted me to be respectful and kind.”
“Yes,” I manage, the word catching in my throat, “but I want more than that.”
His lips brush the inside of my knee, then higher, a single kiss pressed high on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. My whole body jerks like he’s struck a match to my skin.
“Tell me what you want, Lily,” he says softly, but it’s not really a question. It’s a demand, each word sinking into me like claws.
I can barely form the words. “I want you to fuck me.”
His mouth curves against my skin. “Use your manners, Moya.”
Heat rushes through me so fast it makes me dizzy. My hands clutch at the arms of the chair as I whisper, raw and certain, “I want you to fuck me, sir.”
“Mmm,” he praises, one of those rare smiles on his face. “Good girl, now let’s see if your little book character got you ready for me.”
His hand slides up my thigh, the fabric of my cotton shorts brushing against my skin in a way that sends shivers down my spine. His fingers find the edge of my underwear, and I gasp as he slips inside, his touch electric against my slick folds.
“So wet,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “But not wet enough for me yet.”
