I kiss her throat again, rougher this time, then drag my mouth back to hers. She kisses me harder, like she hates that she wants it and hates me more for knowing. Her hands slide into my hair. She pulls, and the small sting of it sends heat straight through me.
I press closer, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
Her eyes fly open.
Innocent. Startled.
Hungry despite herself.
That look nearly breaks what little restraint I have left.
I lower my hand to her thigh, sliding my palm over bare skin where her skirt has ridden up. She trembles. Not with fear now. I know fear. This is something else. Something hotter. Something she’s only beginning to understand.
My fingers move higher, stopping just short of where she’s burning. Her breath catches hard. I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric. She’s soaked. Completely wet for me, and the knowledge hits like violence.
Her eyes close. I watch her face as my thumb strokes once, slow, over the damp fabric between her thighs.
She nearly comes off the desk. A broken little sound slips from her mouth, and she grabs my wrist, but she doesn’t push me away. She only holds on, shaking, as if she’s afraid of what her own body might do next.
“Look at me,” I say.
Her lashes lift slowly. Her eyes are dark now, unfocused, angry, desperate.
Beautiful.
I stroke her again, just enough to make her hips move against my hand without meaning to. Her face burns when she realizes it, but she does it again, smaller this time, a helpless little chase that makes my jaw tighten.
I want to ruin her.
I want to put my mouth on every place Dmitri never learned how to touch.
I want to hear her say my name until she forgets his.
Instead, I stop. I pull my hand away and step back.
Anya stays on the desk, breathing hard, lips swollen, hair loose around her face, skirt high on her thighs. Her eyes open fully, confused first, then furious.
Good.
Let her feel the loss of it.
Let her understand the bargain.
I adjust my cuff like I’m not hard enough to ache.
She stares at me, chest rising and falling. “What are you doing?” she asks, voice rough.
I look at her mouth, then back into her eyes.
“Just a taste,” I say, “of what you get when you say yes to me.”
11
ANYA
For a few seconds,I can’t move.
I sit on Yaromir Volkov’s desk with my skirt pushed high on my thighs, my hair loose around my face, my mouth still swollen from his kiss, and I hate him so much I can barely breathe.
