"I was looking for a bathroom and I got lost," I lie, though my voice is softer than I intended. "And I didn't expect you to defend me downstairs. Vladimir was right about one thing—I’ve spent six months trying to get away from you. I didn't think you’d take a bullet to your reputation just to shut him up."
Mikhail reaches out, his hand cupping the back of my neck. His skin is hot. "I didn't do it for him. And I didn't do it to be a hero. I told you—I hate Vladimir far more than I could ever hate you. And no one insults what belongs to me. Especially not while I’m standing there."
"So it’s just about property," I mutter, even though my pulse is starting to pick up a frantic rhythm.
This man is dangerous. I literally can’t breathe well when he is close to me, and that's a very, very bad thing.
"Is it?" He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. The smell of him is everywhere, it clouds my mind and that’s all I can focus on. "I spent my youth in this room, Irina. Dreaming about leaving. And when I realized I couldn't, I spent it in chaos. Women, drugs, recklessness… I did everything I could tomake my father regret the son he had. I was wild because being anything else felt like dying in slow motion."
My eyes follow his lips as he talks, I want to lean in and just brush my lips against his, they looks so soft, it won’t hurt to find out how th?—
IRINA! Snap out of it! For God’s sake, am I going crazy?
"S—so how did he get you to be the good loyal son you’ve been?"
"He couldn’t. That’s one of the reasons he sent me away all those years ago. He sent me to Italy because he couldn't control me, so he exported me." He lets out a rough breath, a dry chuckle escaping him. " Coward.”
I tilt my head slightly to the side, my eyes not leaving Mikhail, I’m trying to comprehend all this.
He is actually talking to me like a normal person and even crazier, he is talking to me about his past and I genuinely don’t know what to do with any of this information.
His eyes move to mine and I take in a sharp deep breath.
“You know…” he starts, staring into my soul and I can’t resist not looking back. “I never brought women to this room. Not once. Vladimir would never have allowed it. He was afraid they might break something. Or steal something or turn out to be spies. Hewanted this room to be a cell. And I always wanted to be the one to finally break the rules in it."
He looks around the small, cramped space, then back at me. His eyes are dark, swirling with decades-old rebellion.
"You always like to break rules, don’t youdorogaya?" he whispers. "I still haven't forgotten the wedding. Part of me still wants to punish you for it. For making me wait to have you."
The honesty in his voice is what does it.
I take a step towards him, my chest heaving up and down with hard breaths, my lips part involuntarily and Mikhail’s eyes follow them.
He grits his teeth hard like he is trying to control himself.
I don’t want him to control himself, I want him to lose control like I have lost control. I want him to touch, to pull me close and kiss him hard.
The thoughts sends a jolt of sensation through me to my core and I pull my bottom lips in between my teeth stifling the moan that threatens to escape my lips.
“Fuck, Irina. Fuck!”
Before I can blink, I feel Mikhail’s mouth crashing onto mine, my body responds immediately melting into him as the moan releases itself from my lips.
“Hmm” He grunts, his tongue sweeping in, tasting of whiskey and that specific, maddening scent that is just him. My leather jacket is a nuisance he deals with in one rough shove, the heavy material pooling around my elbows, trapping my arms. He backs me up until the hard edge of the old wooden desk digs into the backs of my thighs. A slight thud echoes as my hips connect with it.
I don’t register the discomfort, all I think of is this man in front of me and his treacherous tongue messing with my head. His hands, large and impossibly warm, grip my waist and he lifts me, setting me on the edge. The cool wood is a shock against my ass through the thin black fabric of my leggings. His body slots between my thighs, a heavy, intoxicating weight that pushes them wider. I can feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his trousers, a persistent, thrilling pressure against me.
“M-Mikhail,” I gasp, the name tearing from me as my fingers claw into the dense muscle of his shoulders, pulling him closer.
A low, approving sound rumbles from his chest. “Shh.”
One hand pins my hip to the desk. The other slides down, over the curve of my ass, and grips the fabric of my leggings. He just pushes it down, the elastic waistband digging into my skin, baring me to the cool air and his hot gaze. The vulnerability is instant, a flush of heat that has nothing to do with shame.
The first slap isn’t a tease.
It’s a sharp, stinging crack against the outer swell of my thigh. A jolt of pure sensation—pain that melts instantly into a throbbing, aching heat. A yelp escapes me, my back arching off the desk, my head falling back.
“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly vibration against the skin of my neck. His mouth finds the frantic pulse there, sucking, his teeth scraping just enough to make my toes curl. His free hand, the one not holding me in place, slides between my thighs.
