"I think you're terrified of what happens when there’s nothing left to hide behind," I murmur.
She doesn't hesitate. She reaches up, grabs the knot, and pulls. The towel hits the cedar floor with a soft thud.
I can't breathe for a second.
She’s perfect. Her skin is flushed pink, her breasts rising and falling with every frantic breath. I see the silver scar—the one she lied about—and it makes my blood boil. I want to know who touched her. I want to know everything.
"Happy now?" she asks. Her voice is wrecked. Her eyes are wide and dark.
"I'm getting there," I rumble.
I push my hand between her thighs and force them apart, watching with dark hungry eyes as she lets out a sharp gasp. I look down and see the wetness between her legs. She’s soaked. The slick proof of how much she wants me is right there, and it makes my head spin.
"You're so wet for me, aren't you?" I whisper. I slide my hand down her stomach, my fingers hovering just above her center. "I can feel the heat coming off you. I can hear the way your breath hitches every time I move. You want me to stop talking. You want me to sink my fingers into you and show you exactly who owns this skin."
"Mikhail..." she whimpers. Her head falls back, her hands grabbing my shoulders. Her nails dig into my skin, and I love the sting of it.
"What is it, Irina?" I ask, my voice dropping to a rough growl. I can feel the pulse of her, the way she’s ready to snap. "You need me to ease your ache? I told you on our wedding night, Irina. I told you that sooner or later, you would beg me for what I can give you."
"I'm not... begging," she gasps, but she’s arching her hips toward my hand, seeking the contact.
God! I want her so much, I don’t understand what the fuck it is I’m doing right now, pushing and taunting.
"You're close," I murmur. I brush my thumb against the very top of her, just enough to make her jump and let out a small cry. "So close. I can see it in your eyes. You’re losing it. One touch, Irina. One touch and you’ll fall apart in my hands. Is that what you want? Do you want me to break you right here?"
"Yes," she breathes. It’s a broken, honest sound. "Yes, Mikhail. Please."
I lean in, my mouth hovering over hers. I can smell the sweat and the eucalyptus. My fingers finally graze the slick, swollen heat between her legs. She lets out a shattered moan, her whole body vibrating against mine. She’s right on the edge, ready to explode.
And then I stop.
I pull my hand away.
My body is screaming at me, every nerve ending on fire, but the memory of the morning—of her running, of the secrets I know she’s keeping—stops me. I need to win this. I need her to know that I’m the one in control of this.
I lean back, watching the confusion and the raw frustration wash over her face. Her eyes snap open, wide and wild.
"What... what are you doing?" she asks. Her voice is high and thin.
"I reminded you of a promise, Irina." I keep my voice steady, even though my heart is trying to kick its way out of my chest. "I told you that you would beg. And you just did. But I don't remember saying I would give you what you asked for."
"You... you bastard!" she shouts. Her face turns a deep, angry red.
"I’m a Morozov," I say, standing up. I move with a slow grace that I know makes her want to kill me. "And I don't take half-measures. You wanted space? You wanted choices? Well, here’s a choice. You can sit here in the heat and think about exactly how much power I have over your body. Or you can leave and I’ll see you later at dinner."
"I fucking hate you," she hisses. Her hands are shaking as she reaches for the towel on the floor.
"Hate is just love with a different coat on," I taunt her again with that sentence. I look down at her, letting her see that I’m still hard, still wanting her. "You’re not indifferent to me, Irina. And tonight, while you're sitting across from me, you're going to be thinking about how close you came to shattering."
She doesn't answer. She wraps the towel around herself so hard it looks painful. She stalks toward the door, her knees looking like they might give out at any second.
"This changes nothing!" she yells over her shoulder. Then she slams the door.
I stay in the sauna. The silence comes back, and it’s heavy. I let out a long, ragged breath. My heart is pounding, and the ache in my groin is almost unbearable.
I look at the spot where she was sitting. The wood is damp from her skin. I won. I made her shake hard, made her beg.
But as I reach for my clothes, I realize the victory feels like ash. I made her beg, but I’m the one who’s still starving. I’m the one who has to walk out of here with a head full of her scent and a body that’s screaming for her.
