Page 4 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

He moves toward me, slow and deliberate, giving me time to change my mind. But I don't want to change my mind.

When he reaches me, he cups my face in his hands, his palms rough against my skin. His thumbs brush my cheekbones, and he studies me like he's memorizing every detail.

"You're fucking gorgeous," he murmurs. "You know that?"

Before I can answer, he lowers his mouth to mine.

2

MARLA

The kiss is everything I hoped for and nothing I expected. His lips are firm, demanding, coaxing mine open with an expertise that makes my knees weak.

I grab his shoulders for balance, feeling the solid muscle beneath my palms, and he makes a low sound in his throat that vibrates through me.

His tongue slides against mine, and heat explodes through my body, pooling between my thighs.

His hands move from my face to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel every hard plane of his body against my curves.

One hand slides lower, cupping my ass through my dress, and I gasp into his mouth.

The bulge pressing against my stomach tells me exactly how much he wants this—-wants me—-and the knowledge makes me dizzy with desire.

"Bedroom?" he asks against my lips, his voice rough.

I nod, not trusting my voice, and take his hand.

My fingers look small wrapped in his as I lead him down the short hallway to my room.

The lamp from the living room casts just enough light for us to see, painting everything in soft shadows.

Russ doesn't waste time.

As soon as we're through the doorway, he's kissing me again, walking me backward until my legs hit the bed.

His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress, and he pauses, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.

"You good?" he asks. There's something almost tender beneath the heat in his gaze.

"Yeah," I breathe. "I'm good."

The zipper slides down with a whisper of sound, and then his hands are pushing the fabric off my shoulders.

The dress pools at my feet, leaving me in just my black lace bra and matching panties. I fight the urge to cover myself, hyperaware of my curves.

Zach used to make comments, little digs that made me feel like I was never quite enough.

But Russ looks at me like I'm a feast and he's starving.

"Fuck, Marla," he says, his hands skimming up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.

His compliment sends chills along my spine.

He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with practiced ease, tossing it aside.

When his hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, I can't hold back the moan that escapes.

"That's it," he murmurs, lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth.