He does not stop.
He only looks up at me while he does it, and the sight nearly sends me over the edge. Roman Sokolov on his knees, eyes dark, mouth wet from me, holding me like I’m something he intends to devour.
I come with a sound I cannot control.
It tears through me hard and sudden, pleasure breaking over my skin in waves. My knees give out, but Roman is already standing, already catching me, already kissing me with the taste of myself on his mouth.
I should be embarrassed.
I’m not.
I kiss him back desperately, tasting what he has done to me, hands tearing at his shirt now, buttons slipping beneath my fingers. He helps only when my frustration becomes obvious, yanking the shirt open and shrugging it off. His chest is warm under my palms, solid muscle and scars I do not have time to ask about.
I want to know every mark on him.
I want to touch them later.
Now, I only want more.
Roman lifts me easily, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His mouth stays on mine as he carries me down the hall, my bare back brushing the wall once when he presses me there because apparently the bedroom is too far and neither of us has any patience left.
“Bedroom,” I whisper against his mouth, though my hips are already moving against him.
“You’re the one distracting me.”
“You’re the one who took my dress off in the living room.”
“I should have done it earlier.”
I laugh, breathless, and he swallows the sound with another kiss.
By the time we reach his room, I’m dizzy with need.
His bedroom is dark, vast, and barely lit by the city outside. I catch only pieces of it. A huge bed. Black sheets. Low lamps.Glass and shadow. Roman lays me down like he intends to be careful, then looks at me spread across his bed and loses the thought.
His belt comes open.
My mouth goes dry.
I sit up, reaching for him, but he catches my wrist.
“Not yet.”
“I want to touch you.”
“You will.”
He climbs over me and kisses his way down my body instead, taking his time now, as if the bed has made him patient again. His mouth returns to my breasts, and he sucks one nipple while his fingers tease the other, rolling it until I arch beneath him.
I’m sensitive everywhere.
His mouth moves lower. Over my ribs. My stomach. My hips.
When he spreads my thighs again, I almost sob.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“You can.”
