The last threads of his control snap visibly. He pulls me against him with a growl, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that obliterates any pretense of restraint. I respond instantly, arms winding around his neck, body arching into his, giving as good as I get.
His hands tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against mine in a dance we’ve perfected in stolen moments. I can taste his desire, his need, his hunger that matches my own. My fingers find the hem of his sweater, slipping beneath to touch warm skin stretched over hard muscle.
“I want this,” I breathe, the confession freeing after months of denial. “I want you, Yakov. All of you.”
His eyes darken at my words, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains. With deliberate slowness, he backs me toward the bed, our bodies never losing contact. When my legs hit the mattress, he pauses, studying my face with that penetrating gaze that misses nothing.
“No more pretending this is temporary,” he says, his hands framing my face. “I’m not letting you go.”
The possessiveness in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it sends a thrill through me, a recognition that this man—dangerous, complicated, brilliant—wants me with the same consuming intensity that I want him.
“Good,” I reply, reaching for the side zipper of my dress. “Because I’m not planning to leave.”
His eyes follow the movement of my fingers, watching as I slowly lower the zipper. The hunger in his gaze is almostpalpable, a tangible weight against my skin. When I’ve lowered it halfway, his hand covers mine, stopping me.
“Let me,” he says, his voice rough with need.
I let my hands fall to my sides, surrendering this small control to him. His fingers replace mine, working the zipper with agonizing precision. His breath catches audibly, eyes darkening further as I let the garment slip from my shoulders, revealing the black lace beneath.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, hands sliding to my waist, the dip of my spine. “Too beautiful to be real.”
I reach for him again, pulling his mouth back to mine, needing his kiss like oxygen. This time, when our lips meet, the last barriers between us crumble completely. There’s no turning back, no pretending this is anything but what it is: two people who’ve found each other against impossible odds, who see each other with a clarity that’s both terrifying and essential.
I arch into him, his palms slipping beneath the lace bra to cup my breasts. He murmurs something in Russian, his thumbs grazing my nipples before tracing patterns across my sensitive flesh, desire curling tighter in my belly. His patience infuriates and arouses me in equal measure—this man, who’s always controlling circumstances, orchestrating events, matching wits with those who’d oppose him—is teasing me with purposeful slowness. I want to urge him on, demand he rid himself of the last of his clothes, and fulfill the promise I see burning in his eyes.
I want this to last forever.
When his mouth breaks from mine, trailing down my neck to trace the line of my collarbone, I catch the slightest hint of a smirk. Arrogant bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and he likes it.
The thought drives me crazy in the best possible way.
His lips close over the swell of my breast just above the edge of lace, tongue swirling in a maddening pattern that borders on torture. I thread my hands into his hair, urging him lower, encouraging the tension building between us. In response, he scrapes his teeth over the delicate skin there, a clear warning not to rush him.
I’ll take the risk.
“Please,” I gasp, as his mouth closes over my nipple through the thin fabric, biting hard enough to send sparks of pleasure straight to my core. “Please, Yakov.”
“All of this is mine now,milaya.” Another graze of teeth. “Every sigh, every touch, every part of you.”
“Yours,” I whisper, and the admission, while terrifying, brings a strange relief as well.
He groans against my skin, finally slipping the lace bra away, cupping my bare breasts with deceptive gentleness. Then he begins his torturous journey down the plane of my stomach, tongue and teeth and lips leaving no inch untouched. When his fingers reach my panties, teasing along the edge, I feel my knees weaken.
“Bed,” I plead, shivering with anticipation as he strips the damp lace down my legs.
He stands to remove his clothing quickly, efficiently, with none of the performance I’m used to in male lovers. Yet, there’s no denying his strength, the control that radiates from him even now, his need tempered by patience that both frustrates and thrills me. When he’s finally naked, I’m temporarily frozen, taking in his lean, powerful form, the broad chest, the corded muscle in his arms and thighs, the incredible hardness between his legs.
Then he’s back, the weight of his body pressing me into the bed, the heat of his skin a sharp contrast to the cool sheets. I let my legs part in invitation, pressing my hips into his, seekingfriction. As if sensing my impatience, he guides himself against me, hard and thick and demanding, but doesn’t press further.
My hands find the hard planes of his back, nails digging in slightly. “Yakov, I?—”
“I know,” he interrupts, sensing what I was about to say.
In that moment, everything else fades into the background—his complicated history, my professional code, the thousand reasons why this should never have happened. There’s only him and me, each lost in the other.
He guides himself into me, inch by inch, and I hear his ragged inhale as I welcome him. The sensation is familiar yet different, entirely new, and then he’s fully inside me, surrounding me, claiming me completely. My body responds with an animal urgency, my hips meeting his, wordlessly begging him for more.
He obliges.
