Page 27 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

His heavy palm lands on my ass so hard that it smarts.

My exhale bursts from my lips in a whine.

“Would a sexless robot understand that wasn’t a cry of protest, wife?” Anton asks conversationally, as if enquiring about the time. I glare at him through the mirror. But I also witness myself unleashing an incensed yowl and yanking ferally at my wrists.

I get to watch his head bent, and his mouth twisted in a jarringly boyish smile, pressing to the nape of my neck. The contact burns. His hands seize a wrist each and gently draw them to the edge of the dresser. He curls my hands there, like he’s the strings to my puppet.

A tremor seizes my knees.

He neatly steps away. “Would you like me to help you with the pins?” His mouth shapes the words like this didn’t just happen.

I force myself back upright and stare at him through the mirror. “Did that make you feel like a man?” I spit, disgust contorting my features.

“You tell me,” he volleys. “You’re the one with extremely particular definitions for the word. And who’s so certain I can’t satisfy you?”

My eyes narrow in the reflection. Even that can’t conceal the heat that spreads over me like a rash. I can dissect subtexts too. “Are you looking to satisfy me?” I bluntly question. The words come out so clearly. You’d never know my heart’s dropped between my thighs.

Anton stares back at me. His gaze is unwavering as his hands find my waist, burning through the fabric of my wedding dress. “Is that a challenge?” He raises a single thick brow behind me.

I am not an impulsive woman. In fact, I may be the least impulsive person I know. But I suppose that’s the primary attribute of whatever spirit possesses me that makes me nod.

It’s the one I’ll damn for shivering when Anton says, “No. Say the words.”

The one that turns me back around to face him, returning my hands to the dresser’s edge, like I’m propping my body up for his perusal; an invitation he takes, raking over every inch of me from the top of my head to the hem of my dress.

Who has control of my proud, imperious mouth, reducing it to rasping, “Yes. That’s a challenge.”

The one that grants him another gasp when his lips take a sweet pull on mine, making heat pulse and spread through me like a fire unlike any I’ve known. A fire I’d never think to await from a man like Anton Zakharov.

Though this is no Anton Zakharov I’ve known.

This man kisses me like a man possessed. Instead of my jaw, he grabs the back of my neck and splits my lips apart. The other goes right for my ass, giving away his preferences. Meanwhile, he tastes my mouth like he wants a second taste of the ganache on our wedding cake. His tongue plunders my mouth until he’s stolen a raw, heady moan from its recesses—until I’m pressing against him, running my nails down his front, gripping at his belt like I need the purchase to keep my knees from buckling.

It’s the kind of deep, endless kiss I have to pull back from to take a breath, lest I faint from the lack of oxygen.

“Tell me to stop,” he suggests.

His hands have other ideas. They reconvene at the ribbon holding this dress together, toying with it. When I look up at him, I’m thankful for the heels I haven’t kicked off yet, certain my neck would be aching otherwise.

I don’t stop him when I feel him tug it undone.

“Was that you starting it?” I throw back at him, like my pulse isn’t thrumming between my legs. “Do I look satisfied yet?”

I don’t grant him a gold star for it. I refuse to. If it’s a challenge he wants, then I’ll give him the challenge of his fucking lifetime. I won’t be swayed by the fact that it matters to me if a man can kiss well or not. In my opinion, if he can’t kiss, how’s he going to do anything else? Fair or not, the bar is higher than the man in question is this one.

“You look stunning,” he says.

This time, it’s my turn to laugh in his face. “Obviously. But do I really strike you as a person who’s moved by pretty words?” I mock.

Cool air assaults the skin of my back, unveiled by the corset parting. The garment might be too intricate for him to undo without eyes on it, though, because he coaxes me back around to face the mirror.

Or so I think... Right up till the moment my eyes meet his filthy smirk in the mirror, he pulls the ribbon out with a sharp yank that jerks me back against him, and asks me, “Why, don’t you think stunning is the right word? Just fucking look at yourself.”

The command is irresistible. My eyes snap back to the woman in the mirror, the one he holds in place. Her face is flushed, pink burning past the makeup, and her eyes are absolutely wild with lust. The blue of her eyes has darkened to navy—and it does go stunningly with the lingerie unveiled with a drop of the dress.

What appears to be a lacy, strapless bodysuit is really a two-piece. I look like the cat that got the cream when his hands discover the hooks that secure the thong-style bottoms to the top. And I’m not confused by my body’s reaction to him. It doesn’t surprise me that I itch for him to undo the hooks and touch me.

No matter how much I can’t stand the man, I’m still extremely aware that something about him has always done it for me.