Page 83 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“You scare everyone.”

His grip tightens once. “You scared me.”

My eyes burn. “I was scared first.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” I pull my hand free and stand because sitting makes the bed, the lamp, and his hands feel too gentle. “You picture threats, you map roads, and you put men at gates, but I had to lie on a clinic table while a doctor showed me a heartbeat and your guard stood outside holding my shopping bags.”

Maksim rises with me, and I hate that part of me wants him closer.

“I had to walk out after seeing something alive inside me and pretend pastry made me sick,” I say, and my voice shakes even though I fight it. “I had to come back here, sit across from you while you poured vodka, and let you notice I wouldn’t drink it.”

He steps toward me, and I don’t step back.

“I had to let you touch me while I knew the truth would change everything,” I say, my hand tightening around the keyring. “And you’re giving me another lock, Maksim.”

His fingers curl, and when he speaks, his voice softens. “You hear lock,” he says, and his hand comes up, but it stops short of my face. “It doesn’t change what you are to me.”

His finger trails along my cheek, and he is careful over the bruise as he tucks a loose strand behind my ear. “The lock, the key, the papers, none of it changes that.”

My knees weaken before I can hide it, and he steps forward and pulls me into his arms.

24

ELENA

Kissing him like my life depends on it is the only way to stop myself from breaking. His mouth is hot and demanding, his hands sliding under my thighs to lift me. I climb him, wrap my legs around his waist, and let the keyring fall somewhere between us because I can’t hold anything when he kisses me like that. My back hits the dark wood-paneled wall and the shock goes right through me, a fizz of pain over my bruised ribs that makes me hiss. He pulls back just enough to search my face.

“I’m fine,” I breathe, though my lungs burn.

His stare stays dark. His thumb presses low on my belly, a brief reminder of the life we aren’t speaking about right now, then he drags that hand up slowly, cupping my breast through the thin knit of my dress. I arch against him, needing contact everywhere. I twist my fingers into his hair, tug hard, and kiss him again, faster, rougher. He groans into my mouth. I taste vodka, smoke, and every fear I haven’t named.

He carries me to the bed, drops me like I weigh nothing, and strips my dress over my head in one swift movement.

I’m in black lace barely containing my breasts, and that makes his eyes flash. He palms both, thumbs circling my nipples until they harden, until my hips jerk up seeking friction.

“More,” I whisper.

He strips his shirt open, sleeves rolled, muscles tight, scars catching the light. He drags the lace down, frees me, and folds the bra over the edge of the bed as if even in fever he keeps his order. Then he lowers his head and sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking. Pleasure shoots through me, shimmering down to the ache between my legs. I run my hands over his shoulders, feel the steel under his skin, then claw down his back in sharp lines.

He lifts slightly, and his eyes track my face. “Tell me if anything hurts wrong,” he murmurs, voice softer but still feral.

“I’ll tell you to keep going,” I answer, and he does.

His mouth trails down my stomach. When he reaches the curve just above my pelvis, he looks up, checks me once, then kisses the bruise there with exquisite care. That single soft kiss nearly ruins me. My throat tightens, and I bury my fingers in his hair, pull him higher until our mouths crash again because if we stay gentle I’ll fall apart.

He hooks his fingers under the edge of my panties, pulling them down my thighs slowly, dragging his knuckles along my skin. He slides them off completely and tosses them aside. I’m naked on his bed. He stays kneeling between my legs, eyes traveling from my face to my stomach to the damp heat between my thighs. He swears under his breath, reverent and obscene.

“Spread,” he orders.

I part my knees and feel the cool air wash over me, goosebumps chasing up my legs, but the lust flooding me is blazing hot. He lowers his head and licks over my clit once, a slow wet stroke that makes me cry out. He licks again, faster, then seals his mouth around me and sucks hard, his tongue flicking in a rhythm that shoots electricity through my body. My hands grab the sheets, knuckles white. I pant, hips rocking instinctively. He clamps my thighs with his hands, keeping me open, his tongue plunging deeper. I moan, “Maksim⁠—”

His answer is a growl against me. He slides two fingers inside, curls them just right, and the combination of tongue and thrusts turns me molten. I rock against him, losing control fast, the orgasm rising sharp, unstoppable. I gasp his name again and convulse, pleasure crashing through me like a wave. “Ohhh—” My cry breaks, jerky, some part of me aware of the life inside me and yet my body still grasping at pleasure like oxygen.

He doesn’t stop when I come. He keeps licking, dragging it out until I shout and shove at his shoulder. Only then does he lift his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glazed with hunger.

“Taste yourself,” he says, voice wrecked.