He doesn’t answer immediately. With a slow creak, the door opens wider.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I rasp, pulling the covers up over my chest.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he comes in slowly and sits on the edge of the bed.
I watch him. The cut above his temple. The set of his jaw. The emotion barely contained behind his burning eyes.
“You can’t ask me about my business,” he says. His voice is controlled, low. “It’s too dangerous.”
It takes me a second to shake off the sleep and shock to realize what he’s saying. It takes another few seconds to understand that this is the closest thing to an explanation this man is capable of producing. The anger shifts.
“Is it always this dangerous?” I hear myself asking.
He pauses for a moment, then nods.
I swallow.
“And what if I can’t handle the danger?” My voice comes out quieter than intended.
He reaches over. His fingers find my chin, tilting my face up, and he stares into my eyes.
“There’s no choice,” he says. “Not anymore.” His thumb moves along my jaw. “Don’t be scared,moya koroleva.”
I have no idea whatmoya korolevameans, but it doesn’t matter when he kisses me.
The terrible thing is, I only hesitate for a moment. Theanger is still there, but I kiss him back anyway, and it feels like the most honest thing I’ve done all night.
He’s slow, at first. His hand is still at my jaw, cupping rather than gripping. Then his hands move — down my neck, my shoulders, finding the hem of my sleepshirt and pulling it over my head in one smooth motion.
His mouth finds my throat. Then lower — the curve of my shoulder, the top of my chest, moving with patience. When his mouth closes over my breast, I squeak, and I feel him respond to it — the slight tightening of his hands, the shift in the quality of his attention.
He takes his time. Both sides, methodical, his tongue tracing patterns that short-circuit my ability to think. I have my fingers in his hair. His hands roam over my ribs, my waist.
“Rolan—”
“I know,” he whispers against my skin.
He works his way down, leaving kisses along the way until he’s between my legs. His tongue makes my back arch against the bed.
By the time he’s done, I’ve stopped being a coherent person.
“Fuck me,” I gasp, dizzy with need.
“With pleasure.”
I pull at his shoulders, and we rearrange ourselves until he’s on top. Only when he’s finally inside of me do I feel everything is right where it belongs.
We move together slowly.
It feels amazing. He feels amazing.
Why does he have to feel so good?
Slowly, the anger in me finds its way up.
I push against his chest to get on top of him. His hands find my waist.
I press my palms flat to his chest. His heartbeat thumps under my right hand, faster than his face would suggest.
