She steps closer. “Good.”
My cock swells.
Before I can answer, she reaches up, takes my face between her hands, and kisses me.
Tenderly. That’s what stops me. Not the kiss itself. Not her mouth. Not her body pressed against mine.
The tenderness.
She kisses me like she’s not trying to prove anything. Like she’s not thinking about Dmitri, or Katya, or the room full of people who watched us bleed each other in public. She kisses me like she saw something in me standing in front of that fire and chose not to walk away from it.
For a second, I do nothing.
Then her thumb brushes the edge of my scar. A small careful touch.
I take her mouth.
The kiss changes instantly. Her soft little breath breaks against my lips as I pull her hard against me. My hands close around her waist, then slide lower, gripping her ass through the red silk. She gasps, and I lift her off the floor.
Her legs go around my waist. No hesitation.
My control snaps another inch. I carry her to the nearest wall and press her against it, kissing her until her hands are in my hair and her body is moving against mine. The emeralds are cold against my throat when I lower my mouth to hers again. Her dress rides up, exposing her thighs, and I grind my cock against her through my trousers.
She moans into my mouth. “Yaromir,” she breathes when I drag my mouth down her neck.
“Say it again.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair. “Yaromir.”
My name in her mouth does more to me than it should.
I carry her from the wall to the large table near the fire and set her on the edge. She looks up at me, lips swollen, chest rising fast, eyes dark with something that has nothing to do with revenge now. She’s mine now.
I take her mouth harder. The kiss stops being careful the moment her hands slide into my hair. She gasps into my mouth, and I use it. My tongue pushes past her lips, and she opens for me with a sound that makes my cock go painfully harder. She kisses like she’s angry at me for making her want this, but her body doesn’t lie. Her knees part. Her fingers tighten in my hair. Her hips shift closer, searching for friction she’s too proud to ask for.
The fire is hot behind me.
She’s hotter.
I drag my mouth down her throat, biting once under her jaw. She shivers, and my hand moves up her side, over the tight bodice of the dress. The fabric is expensive, structured, made to hold her in place.
I hate it suddenly. I want my hands on her skin.
I want her open.
My fingers grip the neckline while my mouth finds hers again. I don’t think about the stitching. I don’t think about the cost. I don’t think at all.
I pull. The silk gives away almost immediately.
Anya breaks the kiss with a gasp.
For one second, both of us look down. The red fabric has split across her chest, the bodice dragged low enough to bare one breast completely and leave the other half-covered. Her nipple is already hard, flushed in the firelight.
My breathing stops.
Her eyes lift to mine, dark and bright, and her lips part around a shaky breath. “You ripped my dress,” she whispers.
My hand closes over her bare breast, and her eyelashes flutter.
