Page 15 of Claimed By the BRATVA Grump

"That's," I start, and have to try again. "That’s a lot of information before seven a.m."

"You asked."

"I did ask." My voice has gone somewhere husky and unfamiliar. "I'm a big believer in asking things. Famous for it."

"Sammie."

"Yes."

"You're holding the dish towel again."

I look down. I am. I'm clutching it to my chest like a Victorian widow. I set it on the counter with tremendous dignity, and when I look back up, he's closer, close enough that I have to tip my chin to hold his eyes, close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him, and neither of us has anywhere to be, and nobody is coming, and the whole morning is holding its breath.

"Tell me to leave," he says quietly. "I'll go."

And there it is. The out. Offered plainly, meant completely, this man who takes whatever he wants from an entire city standing in his own kitchen asking permission with the morning light on his face.

I reach up and slide my hand behind his neck.

"Don't you dare," I say.

His control breaks.

His mouth comes down on mine and his hands find my waist and lift, and the marble is cold through my leggings and I don't care, because he's stepped in between my knees and one hand has slid up into my hair. He's kissing me the way he does everything, thoroughly, deliberately, like he's been planning the route for days, and the sound I make against his mouth is frankly embarrassing. The sound he makes back is so much worse, low and starved and four days late.

I let my fingers slide beneath the elastic of his waistband and his whole body goes still against me. It takes me a second to understand that he's giving me time to change my mind. I don't want time. I want him. I pull him closer by the fabric and he makes that sound again, rougher this time, and his free hand drops to my thigh, thumb tracing the inside of my knee through the thin leggings.

"Tell me if I go too fast," he says against my jaw, and his stubble scratches in a way that sends heat straight down my spine.

"You're not going too fast," I manage, and my voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds like someone who knows exactly what she wants. "You're going exactly right."

He laughs, a short breath against my throat, and then his mouth is there, open and hot, and my head falls back and hits the cabinet behind me and I don't even care. His hand moves up my thigh, so slow I could scream, and when he reaches the edge of my sweatshirt, he doesn't hesitate. He pushes it up and his palm flattens against my stomach as I suck in a breath because his hand is warm and rough and exactly what I need.

"Off," I say, tugging at his pants.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and blown wide, and then he grips the hem of the sweatshirt I’m wearing and pulls it over my head in one motion. The kitchen air is cool on my skin and I realize I'm sitting on his counter in just my leggings and I should feel exposed but I don't. I feel seen. He looks at me like I'm something he's been waiting for, and the hunger in his face makes me brave.

His jaw tightens. He doesn't look away. He looks at me like he's memorizing every part of me, and then his hands are on my waist and he's pulling me to the edge of the counter so I'm pressed right against him. I can feel how much he wants me through the thin fabric of his sleep pants.

"Eduard," I whisper, and it comes out like a plea.

He kisses me again, deeper, messier, his hands moving to my breasts. He brushes his thumbs over my nipples and I arch into him because I can't help it. It feels like every nerve ending in my body has been waiting for this exact touch. I rake my handsdown his chest, feeling the hard muscle, the faint scars, and then I push his pants down and he kicks them off. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry.

He's beautiful. I knew he would be. But knowing and seeing are different things. He's all lean power and scarred skin and a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel and I want to follow it with my mouth. I lean forward to do exactly that but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

"Not yet," he says, and his voice is gravel. "If you put your mouth on me right now this will be over before it starts."

I look up at him through my lashes. "That confident in my skills?"

"That desperate for you," he corrects, and the honesty in it steals my breath.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my leggings and I lift my hips so he can pull them down, taking my underwear with them. The marble is cold against my bare skin pulling a small gasp from me that he catches with his mouth. He kisses me like he's trying to warm me from the inside out. When his hand slides between my thighs I stop thinking entirely.

His fingers find me wet and ready and he groans against my neck.

"Please," I say, because I can't wait. I don't want to wait. I've been waiting my whole life for someone to look at me the way he does, like I'm not too much or too loud or too soft, like I'm exactly right. "Please, Eduard. I need you inside me."

He makes a noise like something breaks in him and he's back between my legs, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks as he looks at me one more time.