“Yes,” she nods, her chest rising and falling. As my mouth finally crashes into hers, her vermilion lips part willingly. The kiss thrums deep in my bones. Soft in my arms, her hands slide up my chest, fist into my shirt, and I’m lost.
Wrapping my arms around her waist, I anchor her to me as I deepen the kiss, our mouths moving in sync like we’ve done this a thousand times in dreams we never admitted having.
I walk her backward until her spine hits the wall. She gasps into my mouth, and it’s the most devastating sound I’ve ever heard.
“Yakov,” she breathes, and hearing my name like that—like a need, like a prayer—undoes me completely.
I trail kisses along her jaw, down the elegant column of her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips. Her head falls back, giving me better access, a surrender I’ve been waiting for. When my teeth graze the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder, she makes a sound that’s half-gasp, half-moan, and I immediately want to hear it again.
“This is it, Mila,” I murmur against her skin. “You’re mine now.”
Her hands frame my face, pulling me back to meet her eyes. What I see there—desire, certainty, a reflection of my own hunger—obliterates any remaining doubts.
“I want that.”
My tongue ravages her mouth, a hand tangling in her hair while the other slides beneath her blouse, seeking the warmth of her skin.
When she tugs at the hem of my shirt, I straighten just long enough to pull it over my head, exposing the scars and muscle beneath. Her eyes darken as they trace over me, but it’s not just the scars that capture her attention.
Her fingers follow the path of her gaze, mapping each mark. Once she reaches the wolves curled beneath my ribs, her touch becomes feather light, tracing the jagged lines of ink.
“Wolves,” she murmurs, a small smile playing at her lips. “They suit you.”
“Do they?” My voice is rough.
“Dangerous when cornered. Protective of what’s theirs.” Her fingers flutter on my skin, sending a current through every cell of my body.
Her hand drifts lower, finding the Cyrillic script along my oblique. The letters are partially obscured by the scar tissue, but her fingers trace what remains with recognition.
“Bratva,” she whispers, reading the faded ink. “Brotherhood. Blood.”
I nod, watching her face as she deciphers the marks that tell my story. When her hands curve around me to trace the cross etched between my shoulder blades, her touch becomes feather light.
“And this?” she asks softly. “I’ve seen it in the gym.”
The words stick in my throat for a moment. “For my sister.” The words come out hoarse. “Anastasiya. So she’s always with me.”
Her expression shifts. It’s not pity but understanding. She leans down and presses her lips to the wolf tattoo, the gesture so tender it stops my breath.
“Beautiful,” she whispers against my skin.
The reverence in her voice catches me unprepared. No one has looked at me this way before, seeing past the damage to something she deems worthy of admiration.
Then her eyes drop to the outline of my rock-hard cock straining against the material of my pants, her hand trailing the bulge. I am so hot for her that it takes all my control to keep myself from tearing her apart against the wall. I gently take her hand and pull her up. She deserves more care, more attention.
“Do you like touching me, little doctor?” I growl, biting her earlobe, her back arching into me.
“Please, Yakov, I need to feel you. Can we do the teasing the second time around? After you’ve fucked me?”
“You are a greedy girl,” I scold softly. With a wicked smile, I silence her with another bruising kiss, my hands working at the buttons of her blouse until it falls open. The sight of her—skin flushed with desire, the delicate lace of her bra barely concealing her curves—sends a surge of possessiveness through me that I don’t even try to suppress.
Mine, a primal part of me roars. Mine to touch, to taste, to claim.
Unclasping and discarding her bra, my hand finds her breast, her tight little furls just begging to be sucked. I lower my head and kiss and tug at each of her nipples, twirling my tongue around them. A broken moan escapes her lips while I continue to play, licking and biting. I want to unravel this perfectlycomposed woman until she’s a trembling, panting mess begging for release.
I return my mouth to her neck, tracing the smooth line with my tongue and teeth, while my hand slips lower, grazing the waistband of her jeans and popping the button. “Are you on protection, little doctor?”
“Yes.” The word is barely audible.
