My heart pounds. I want to soothe him. Touch him.
I settle my palm onto his chest. He’s so thick and hard with muscle. I feel myself turning to him, like a flower. I don’t feel lost when I touch him. When he kissed me roughly that time, I didn’t feel lost.
Turn back, I say to myself. Reverse. You are drunk.
I say this to myself even as I slide my hand across his skin. Even as I touch his rosy nipple, puckered in a swirl of hair. He sucks in a breath as I touch the other, pulse hammering.
He puts his hand over mine—to try to stop me? I drink in the feel of him. He holds me with his gaze. His belly rises and falls as his breath comes fast.
Then I realize my breath is coming fast, too.
“What do you want?” His breath has gone ragged. It sounds staccato to my ears. I slide my hand lower, fingers under his belt. He clamps a hand onto my wrist. “Lisichka.”
I want this man—all of him. I shouldn’t, yet I do. I climb onto his lap, my arms around him, hands clinging to the massive muscles of his shoulder. “I want what the old Tanechka had, just for a moment.”
He shudders out a breath and sets his hands on my cheeks, cradling my head like it’s the most fragile thing on earth.
“I want to feel you around me.”
Suddenly he’s flipping us around so he’s on top of me, laying me out like a dark feast below him. “Are you sure?”
“No,” I say. The truth. “I’m not sure. When I touch you, I want you. And I feel lost.”
His brown eyes soften. “You’re never lost when I’m in the world.” He dips his head to mine for a kiss.
He slides his body against mine as he kisses me, sending pleasure between my legs. Again and again he slides against me, forcing the pleasure through me. Slowly he sits up, straddling me, looming above me.
I slide my hands up and down his hard thighs, spread over me like mighty tree trunks clad in fabric, taut from bearing his weight. He watches me carefully as he moves his hands to my collar. In one wild motion he rips my shirt in two, baring my breasts.
I laugh in surprise. I think about how he said I don’t like smiley sex, but I like this.
He kisses a line down my belly to my waistband. He unbuttons my jeans and shoves them and my panties all the way down, off the ankle without the metal iron. He kisses back up my bare legs.
My heart pounds as he nears.
He pauses at my sex.
I gasp as he licks me there once and again. I hiss out a breath as he spreads my legs even farther apart, licking there.
I grab onto his hair as he licks me, teases me, nips me, a horrible, perfect, wonderful torture. I don’t want him to stop this magic.
And he doesn’t.
Even when I cry out and break apart, spinning in feeling, he keeps on. He keeps me spinning in pleasure. I’ve barely come down when he’s over me, putting on a condom onto himself. He holds himself over me, caging me with his massive arms.
He runs his fingers over the underside of my forearms, gliding gently over my skin.
It feels like sparkles and light.
But his expression is savage. He is not a good man. I look away.
“Look at me,” he says.
The command makes my sex throb. I turn my gaze up to him. He is not a good man, but I want him to make me do things.
Watching me, holding me with his gaze, he brings his arm down between us and guides himself to my entrance, pressing his manhood between my legs. I feel the fat bulb of his head, pressing at my entrance.
I suck in a breath, stunned by the hugeness of him.
A little warning bell goes off. I can’t have sex with him. A nun is supposed to be betrothed to Jesus.
“Wait!”
He doesn’t wait. He fits his hand around my neck—and he squeezes. He squeezes my neck with the claiming pressure he promised.
My pulse bangs against his fingers. My sex pulses with electricity. It feels like magic goes through me.
He squeezes harder.
The squeeze is like a hypnotic command. This dangerous pressure that tells me I’m his. That he’ll take me in whatever way he wishes.
“More,” I gasp.
He squeezes my neck and shoves my legs further apart, spreading me open wide. Then he thrusts inside me, filling me with his hugeness, with pain and possession.
The feeling of him inside me is perfect beyond imagination.
I cry out in agony.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Viktor
I fuck her fast and hard, spearing her. I’m the man who doesn’t deserve her, but I take her anyway, working her body as if it belongs to me. It’s what she loves, to be pounded into oblivion.
“You belong to me, lisichka.”
She whimpers and digs her nails into my shoulders. I growl and hold her, take her, giving her everything I am. I close my eyes as I give her everything.
On and on I go, slow and savage now. I slide against her clit. Her orgasm likes to run and hide. But I’m a lethal hunter.
“Wait,” she says, breaking me from my reverie. “Wait.”
I slow. “What?”