Page 33 of Marrying the Pakhan

“She adores you.”

“I adore her too.” He says it plainly, no hesitation, the same way he said it on the porch days ago, and hearing it a second time lands even harder than the first. “And I adore her mother more than I know what to do with most days.”

I don’t look away from him even though every instinct I have says I should.

“Harper.” His voice drops, rougher now. “I can’t keep pretending this is just an arrangement. I’ve tried. I’m done trying.”

Then he kisses me, and it’s nothing like the doorstep, slower, deliberate, both of us fully choosing it this time instead of getting swept into it by adrenaline and a stranger’s daring. My hands find his shirt, his hand slides into my hair, and neither of us pulls back for a long time.

When we finally do, he doesn’t say anything else. He just stands, pulls me up with him, and laces our fingers together, leading me back through the dark house toward his room instead of mine.

I don’t hesitate this time. I follow him all the way to his door, and when he pushes it open and pulls me inside, I go without a single thought about what happens after tonight.

The door closes behind us, and his hands are on me again. One at the small of my back, the other sliding up into my hair. He doesn’t rush the kiss. He just takes it, slow and deep, like he’s been waiting for permission he finally decided not to ask for. I taste the vodka on his tongue and something warmer underneath it.

My back hits the wall. I make a small sound against his mouth, and he answers it with a lower one, almost a growl, and then his hands are under my shirt, palms flat against my skin, pushing the fabric up.

“Off,” he says, voice rough.

I lift my arms. He pulls the shirt over my head and drops it somewhere behind him. The cool air hits my bare stomach, and I shiver, but it’s not from the cold. His eyes drop, tracking the line of my chest, the rise of my chest with every breath. He looks at me like he’s memorizing.

“You’re staring,” I whisper.

“I know.” His thumb brushes the edge of the lace. “I’ve been wanting to.”

I reach for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers are less steady than I want them to be. One button, then another. He doesn’t help. He just watches my hands work, jaw tight, like holding still is costing him something.

When the last button comes free, I push the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls. The heat of his skin under my palms is almost shocking.

I trace the line of a scar low on his ribs without meaning to. He catches my wrist, not hard, just enough to stop me.

“Harper.”

“What?”

“If we keep going, I’m not stopping.”

I look up at him. His eyes are darker in the low light, pupils blown. There’s no performance left in his face. No careful distance. Just want, and the decision already made.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Something in him breaks open at that. He kisses me again, harder this time, and walks me backward until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed.

We go down together. His weight settles over me, careful even now, and I feel the full length of him pressed against my hip through the thin fabric of his pants. The solid heat of it makes my breath catch.

His mouth moves to my neck, then lower, to the hollow of my throat. I tilt my head back, and my fingers slide into his hair. He leans down, and his mouth is on my breast, hot and open, tongue circling, and a soft, helpless sound leaves me before I can stop it.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against my skin. “You feel⁠—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just keeps going, mouth and hands working in slow tandem, learning what makes my hips shift under him. I can feel how hard he is, the controlled restraint in the way he’s still holding most of his weight off me.

I want that restraint gone.

I reach between us and palm him through his pants. He goes still for half a second, forehead dropping against my collarbone, a low, broken sound vibrating in his chest.

“Harper—”

“I know.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “I want this. I want you.”