"I've never wanted anyone before," I whisper.
"I know." His other hand comes up, cradling my face between his palms. "And I've been trying so hard not to touch you. Not to take what I want. Because you're young, and you've been through hell, and you deserve better than a fifty-year-old monster who can't stop thinking about you."
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "You think about me?"
"Every second of every day." His voice is raw. Wrecked. "I think about your smile and your laugh and the way you look in my shirts. I think about those noises you make when you're dreaming. I think about your body and your mouth and all the things I want to do to you that I have no right to want."
I'm trembling. My whole body is trembling.
"Leonid—"
"Tell me to stop." His forehead drops to mine, breath mingling with mine. "Tell me to let go and I'll let go. I'll give you money, a new identity, anything you want. You can walk out that door and I won't stop you."
"I don't want to walk out the door."
"Then tell me what you want."
I don't have words. I've never had words for this. So I do the only thing that makes sense.
I kiss him.
My lips find his, clumsy and uncertain, and for a heart-stopping moment he doesn't respond. Then his control shatters.
He takes over the kiss like he takes over everything—completely, overwhelmingly. His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head back, and his tongue slides into my mouth. I gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound, kissing me deeper, harder, claiming me in a way I've never been claimed.
This is what wanting feels like.
Heat floods through me, pooling between my legs. I'm aching there now, actually aching, my clit throbbing with a need I don't know how to satisfy. I whimper into his mouth and he groans—a low, desperate sound that makes everything worse.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, almost swallowing the ice-blue of his irises.
"Do you understand now?" he rasps. "What you're feeling?"
I nod, dazed.
"Your body wants mine." His thumb traces my lower lip, still wet from his kiss. "And I want yours. More than I've ever wanted anything."
"Then show me," I whisper. "Please."
Something shifts in his eyes. The last thread of his restraint snapping.
He doesn't ask. Doesn't hesitate. He lifts me like I weigh nothing—one arm under my knees, the other around my back—and carries me down the hallway to his bedroom. Our bedroom.
He lays me on the bed and stands over me, eyes raking down my body.
"Take off the shirt."
It's not a request. My hands tremble as I reach for the hem—his shirt, the one I always wear—and pull it over my head.
I'm not wearing a bra.
The cool air hits my bare breasts and my nipples tighten instantly. I move to cover myself, but his voice stops me cold.
"Hands down. Don't hide from me."
I force my arms to my sides. He stares at my breasts, my stomach, the plain cotton underwear, and I feel more exposed than I've ever been in my life.
"Those too. Take them off."
