“Show me what it feels like when you love someone instead of trying to own them.”
Something changes in his eyes, goes deeper and warmer. He kisses me again, this time with the kind of reverence that makes my breath catch.
“I can do that,” he promises.
His mouth trails kisses along my pulse while his hands slide over my hip and cup my ass.
There’s no rush, no desperate need to claim or conquer. Just the slow, sweet burn of desire building between us.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against my skin.
I arch into his touch as his lips trace the hollow of my throat. “You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it differently now.”
“How?”
“Before, I said it because I thought you wanted to hear it. Now, I say it because I can’t help myself.”
His honesty makes something warm unfold in my chest. This man who built his life on deception is offering me nothing but truth.
“Dmitri?”
“Mmm?”
“I love you, too. Therealyou, not the fantasy version who kidnapped me.”
He lifts his head to look at me, and I see the vulnerability in his eyes. “Even knowing what I’m capable of?”
“Your violence doesn’t scare me. What matters is that you chose to be better.”
He kisses me deeper, and I lose myself in the taste.
His hands roam my body with growing confidence, relearning every inch of me like he’s discovering me for the first time.
His fingers pinch my nipple, and I gasp into his mouth, the heat from the connection arrowing low and sharp.
“I could spend all night doing this to you,” he tells me, his voice rough with need.
“Then do it.”
He takes his time as his mouth follows the path his hands blazed. His tongue teases my nipple in slow circles, dragging noises out of me I didn’t know I could make.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Please what?”
“More.”
He scrapes his teeth over my nipple, and I cry out, the sting sweet as sin.
My hands fist in his hair, holding him against me.
“Yeah, you like it rough,” he mutters, smug against my skin.
“Yes.”
He toys with me until I’m shaking, then his hand slides between my thighs. I’m already wet and ready for him.
