I look at his face, his lips an inch from my hardened nipple. "No, please don't stop."
"Beautiful," he murmurs, tracing the curve of my collarbone with reverent fingers. “Perfect.”
His hand slips from my chest down. He grabs my hands and lifts them above my head. "Hands up, and don’t move, little wolf". His eyes met mine, motionless until I nodded slightly. "Good girl."
My breathing quickens even more as his hands slowly but firmly travel up my arms, over my breasts, and hook into the waistband of my sleep shorts, pulling them down, exposing me completely on his bed.
He is still dressed, still in control, and I’m loving every second of it.
"Open them, beautiful."
And I feel beautiful. Perfect. I didn't realize how long I've gone without that feeling, without all this confidence, but the way he's touching me makes me believe it might be true.
Mikhail lowers his head, inhaling deeply before licking, sucking, kissing and nibbling on my arousal, increasing it.
My fingers find his hair, sliding through the strands.
"Ah, ah..."
My thighs tighten and I feel the heat spreading under my skin, ribbons of pleasure growing and growing...
"Oh, God. I'm…” Arching my back, my heels dug into his back. "Ahhh…," I sob, my lungs finally inflating and spots appearing in my vision. My body and mind go in a blank state.
I barely register his soft kisses running over my body.
My fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, and when I push it off his shoulders, I'm struck again by the contrast between his elegant exterior and the evidence of violence written across his skin. Even knowing what to expect from our earlier encounter, seeing him like this - powerful and completely focused on me - sends heat spiraling through my core.
Beautiful and dangerous.
"Say it again," I demand, tracing one of the scars near his ribs.
"Say what?"
"That I'm beautiful, and perfect."
His laugh is low and rich. "You're magnificent. Fierce. Intelligent. Brave."
Brave.Maybe that's what this is. Not stupidity or desperation, but courage. The courage to choose something different, although uncertain.
When he lifts me onto the bed, his touch is gentle despite the strength I can feel in his hands. This is what I never expected from the man I thought I know - tenderness. Care.
He makes me feel cherished.
"I've imagined this," he admits, pressing kisses along my throat. "Imagined having you in my bed, being able to touch you without pretending I didn't want to."
"Tell me more."
His mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and the contact makes me arch against him. "Taking you apart slowly. Learning what makes you gasp, what makes you beg. Showing you exactly how much I've wanted you."
The words combined with the scrape of his teeth against my skin are making me wet between my thighs.
"Then show me," I breathe.
It seems to click something in him, and I feel it in everything: in his touch, in his breathing, in his hold. He's been holding back, and I sense the exact moment he stops, when he lets go.
Possessiveness, longing, fear of loss, suppressed passion; his body seems to betray all these feelings without the need for words, only through his touch, speaking with his body to mine.
“Remember you asked for it, little wolf.”
