Page 123 of Cruel Demands

“You can change your mind,” he says.

“You carried me in here.”

“I can carry you back.”

“To the kitchen table?”

“If that is what you would prefer.”

I shove his shoulder. He catches my wrist, but only for a second. His thumb slides over my pulse before he releases me.

“I’m not changing my mind,” I say.

“You are scared.”

“I can be scared and still want you.”

Something changes in his face. It’s small. A tightening around his mouth. A darkness settling behind his eyes. He understands that better than anyone.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt. This time, he lets me. My fingers are clumsy. He watches me struggle through the first two before taking over, opening the rest with quick, impatient movements. His shirt falls to the floor.

I have seen parts of him before. His throat. His chest through an open collar. His forearms when he rolls up his sleeves at work. None of it prepared me for all of him.

He is broad and solid, his body marked by old scars I do not ask about. A pale line crosses his ribs. Another disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers.

I run my fingertips over the first one. His stomach tightens. “Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Later,” he dismisses. Promises.

He reaches behind me and unfastens my bra. I lift enough for him to pull it away. The way he looks at me makes me want to cover myself. I begin to.

He catches my hand. “No.”

My face burns. “Mikhail.”

“You do not hide from me now.” His hand moves over my waist, then higher. He cups my breast, his thumb brushing slowly over the nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. I inhale sharply. He does it again. “You like that.” It is not a question.

His fingers close more firmly. I arch before I can stop myself. He lowers his mouth to my nipple, and the first pull of his lips unfurls a groan from deep inside my pelvis. He takes his time, switching between teasing strokes of his tongue and sharp little tugs that make me squirm beneath him.

I thread my fingers through his hair and rake my nails down his back. He groans against my skin. So Mikhail likes pain. I should have known. I scratch him again to be certain. His head lifts. “That was deliberate.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I did not know we were playing rough.” He catches both my wrists and pins them over my head with one hand. He kisses me hard. Demanding. His free hand moves between my legs, stroking through my wetness. Some is new, and some is leftover from his tongue. I moan into his mouth. He pushes one finger inside me, then another, working slowly until the stretch eases and pleasure begins to gather again. I move against his hand. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.”

The words make something inside me clench. He feels that too.

His mouth curves against mine. “I think you enjoy being told what to do.”

“I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”

He curls his fingers. My answer dissolves into a gasp. He continues until my thighs shake and my grip on his shoulders becomes painful. Then he stops.

I stare at him in disbelief. “You are evil.”