“I know what it means,” she whispered.
I kissed her, and the last of my restraint went.
The bed struck the wall once. I caught the headboard with one hand and changed the angle, pushing deeper, watching her face as she took me. She moaned, and I felt her begin to tighten again, too sensitive, too much, exactly where I wanted her.
“One more,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“You can give me one more.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yes.”
She came apart on a sobbed breath, body arching under mine, and I followed her over.
I buried myself deep and came inside her.
My hips locked against hers. Heat poured through me, every pulse dragging a rough sound from my chest. I held her there, filled her there, my face in her hair and my hand under her hip as if my body alone could keep the city away from her.
For several breaths, neither of us moved.
Then Nadia’s fingers stroked once over the back of my neck.
Small.
Uncertain.
Enough to undo me.
I lifted my head.
Her eyes were half-closed. Her cheeks were flushed, mouth swollen, lashes damp. She looked wrecked and alive and not one inch owned by the men who had tried to sell her.
I eased my weight off her without leaving her too fast.
She winced when I slipped out.
I saw it and went still. “Hurt?”
“A little.” Her voice was softer now. “Not badly.”
I kissed her shoulder. “Stay there.”
She made a face. “Bossy after all.”
“I’m going to get water and a warm cloth. You may object from the bed.”
“I object.”
“Noted.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t count as listening.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “No. It counts as being warned.”
I went to the bathroom, wet a cloth with warm water, and brought it back with a glass from the carafe beside the bed. Nadia had pulled the sheet to her breasts. She watched me approach like she might still throw a lamp if I became the wrong man.
