Page 43 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“You’re rushing.”

I slow down, go line by line, and point to a discrepancy. “This one doesn’t track.”

He leans in closer to look. His arm comes around the table, braced near my hand. I don’t move.

“Say it again,” he says.

I repeat it, but my voice slips a little, and I know he hears it. His head turns. Now he’s looking at me. I hold it for a second, then look back down.

“Keep going,” he says.

I do, but the space between us has changed. Every shift brings him closer. My hip brushes the edge of the table, and he adjusts, closing the distance without asking.

My breath tightens. I steady it and keep working. He moves again, and this time his hand settles on the table beside mine, close enough that I feel it without contact.

“Read that section,” he says.

I try. The words sit there, but I’m aware of him in a way I can’t push aside. I glance up. He’s watching. His gaze drops to my mouth, then comes back to my eyes. His shoulders set, and something in his expression tightens.

I don’t step back and neither does he. He leans in first. The kiss is brief, firm, his mouth pressing once like he’s testing it. I hold still. Then my hand fists in his shirt and drags him back before I can think it through. He comes in harder this time, closer, and the papers slide under our hands. The table digs into my hips.

I don’t even think about stopping.

13

ELENA

Maksim palms the back of my neck and pushes me forward, not harsh, but firm enough that I move. I catch myself with my hands on the table, breath catching. The next second, he yanks my chair out, drags me up, and turns me so I’m facing the table’s edge.

“Take your knees,” he orders.

Fire darts through my chest. I drop to the floor despite every warning shrieking in my head. The parquet is cold under my knees. He stands in front of me, unbuckling his belt with slow, certain movements, metal clinking in the hush. I keep my eyes on the buttons of his shirt until his hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up.

“I said watch.”

I look. His expression is carved granite, only the heat in his gaze giving him away. I reach and undo his belt, the textured leather sliding through the buckle. His zipper sighs open. I free him, heavy and hot, already hard in my hand. I lick my lips once, then take him into my mouth.

He tastes of skin and smoke. I hollow my cheeks, suck slow, letting him feel every inch of tongue. He threads his fingers through my hair, guiding, controlling the depth. I breathe through my nose, taking him deeper until the blunt head presses my throat. He groans, low, tension winding inside him. I swallow and pull back, then push forward again, faster, wetter. Saliva spills down my chin. I drag my nails up his thigh and feel the muscle jump. He swears in Russian under his breath, the sound vibrating through me.

“Deeper,” he commands.

I obey, taking him to the hilt, the stretch burning. My eyes water, tears mixing with spit. He holds me there, hips barely moving, forcing me to hold his gaze while my throat adjusts. Then he pulls out and thrusts back in, controlling the rhythm. I focus on breathing, on the jagged inhale he can’t suppress when I suck harder. My hands slide around to grip his ass, nails digging into the firm muscle as I urge him faster.

He likes the fight. He tightens his grip on my hair, using it. “You look ruined like this,” he says, “kneeling for me.”

I glare up at him even as my mouth works him deeper. He smiles, sharp, and pushes me off with a nudge of his thumb. Spit glistens on his cock, trailing from my lips. He wipes the pad of his thumb across my mouth and shoves it back between my lips.

“Suck.”

I suck his thumb, eyes locked on his. He watches, breathing thickening. When he pulls his hand away, he cradles my jaw.

“Up.”

My legs protest as I stand. He spins me, palms flattening on my hips, then bends me over the table. Papers scatter, flutter skyward, drift to the floor. He kicks my ankles apart, using his knee to push them wider, the table edge pressing into my stomach. He drags my dress up, bunching it around my waist, baring me from behind. Chill licks over my thighs. His hand cups me, finds me soaked.

“You’re dripping,” he murmurs.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from answering. He swats me once, sting biting across the curve of my ass. I hiss. He does it again, harder, and heat blooms in the welt.