The muscles in his shoulders and arms move with every hit, hard and defined. Sweat runs down his back and disappears beneath the waistband of the gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, leaving me feeling tight and hot all over.
He hits the bag again. And again.
Each strike sends the bag swinging, his breathing heavy but in control. I should probably step away before he notices me, but I don’t. My eyes stay on him, drawn to the way his body moves, to the strength in every motion.
Then he shifts, the light catching his back, and I see them. The scars.
I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering who did that to him. The marks stretch across his back in harsh, uneven lines that cut through the bronzed skin of his shoulders and down toward the middle and sides—some long and jagged, others thinner but no less brutal, crossing over each other.
Did someone whip him?
Oh God…
My gasp hitches.
Kirill stops so abruptly, it’s like someone pulled a cord. His fists lower while the punching bag keeps swinging in front of him.
He doesn’t turn right away. He just stands there with his back to me, like he’s deciding what version of himself I’m about to see.
Then he pivots. His eyes find mine immediately, like he already knew it would be me.
“Sloane,” he says, his voice gritty. “What are you doing down here?”
“I…couldn’t sleep,” I manage, even as desire builds low in my stomach. I squeeze my legs, hoping it’ll ease.
When he starts toward me, peeling off his gloves and tossing them carelessly onto the floor, something in the way he looks at me sends my pulse spiking. There’s a hunger in his gaze that makes it feel like he might actually devour me.
I take a step back. Then another. But there’s no wall behind me to stop against, nothing to anchor myself to as he closes the distance.
“You wandering down here…” His knuckles brush lightly along the outline of my jaw. “That was a mistake.”
My breath leaves me unevenly as his gaze drops to my mouth, his thumb sliding slowly across my bottom lip.
“Maybe I should go,” I whisper.
A low, humorless laugh escapes him. “It’s too late now.”
My eyes widen as his free hand slides into my hair and pulls my head back, forcing my body tight against his. One arm locks around my back, holding me there, and through the thin fabric of his sweats, I can feel how hard he is, pressing straight into me.
“Oh God,” I cry out and a growl tears out of him.
“God could never save you from a man like me, malyshka.”
Pure, unfiltered lust rushes through me. There’s something masculine and dangerous in his gaze that only makes me want him more.
“Please,” I groan, the word slipping out before I can think, desire twisting through me so strongly it’s impossible to hold back.
“Please what?” His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling my mouth to his as his lips brush against mine, slow and teasing until my knees turn weak beneath me.
When a soft whimper breaks free, he groans and suddenly shoves me back against the nearest wall. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
His hand slides up my thigh, teasing a slow path up until he pauses, his expression tight. “You walked around the house like this?”
He leans back just enough to take in the ivory silk nightgown, his dark gaze dragging over my body like he’s starving.
“You let my men see you like this…with these perfect tits practically on display?”
His fingers close around one nipple, tightening just enough to make my head fall back as a sharp rush of pleasure shoots through me.
