Page 31 of Captured By the Pakhan

And there it is. Right there in the middle of everything, this man on his back with my knees on either side of his ribs, asking permission.

He's asking.

I have known a great many men and been touched by more of them than I'd like and I cannot at this moment think of one single time somebody asked.

"Say it plainly," I hear myself say. "Whatever you're asking. Say it in words."

"I want to kiss you." No hesitation at all. "And I want to do a great deal more than that, and I am going to do exactly none of it unless you tell me to. If you get up and walk out of this room right now, nothing about your position in this house changes tomorrow. Nothing. You have my word and my word is the only currency I actually have."

"And if I don't get up?"

"Then I’ll take that as permission."

"Don't stop," I say.

I let go of his wrists and he moves, and he is fast — one hand into my hair at the nape and the other flat between my shoulder blades and he rolls us both, and my back hits the rug and his mouth is on mine.

It is not gentle and I don't want it to be. It's a decade of nothing coming apart at once. He kisses like he does everything else, which is thoroughly and without any apparent doubt, and I get a fistful of his shirt and pull and hear something give at the shoulder seam and neither of us cares.

"Up," he says against my mouth, and lifts me — actually lifts, one arm under me, like I weigh nothing — and sets me on the edge of the desk and steps between my knees.

Everything on the desk goes onto the floor. A lamp survives. Nothing else does.

His mouth on my throat, over the marks Andrei left, careful there and not careful anywhere else. My hands under his shirt and up the flat of his back, the ridge of an old scar under my palm, the heat coming off him. He gets my shirt open and does not rush it and his mouth follows his hands down and I make a sound I have not made in years.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I don't."

"Tell me anyway. Any time. That's the arrangement."

"Ilya."

"Say it."

"I'll tell you," I get out. "I swear to God I'll tell you. Now will you⁠—"

His hand goes to the button of my jeans and stops.

"Yes," I say. "Yes."

He takes his time. That's the thing I'm not prepared for — that a man built like a wrecking ball turns out to be patient, and generous. Two fingers, slow, working me open like he has all night to do it, every time my hips come up off the desk chasing it he slows down instead of speeding up and giving me what I want.

“Bozhe moy,” he says against my jaw. “You’re soaked. Just for me.”

“Ilya–”

He watches my face the entire time and adjusts to what he finds there. When I get loud he puts his other hand flat over my mouth and murmurs something in Russian into my hair that I don't understand and yet understand perfectly.

“You’re wet enough that I can hear it,” he growls, “and I haven’t even gotten your pants all the way off yet.”

Mercilessly he continues, faster, then not. Then a curl of his fingers makes my heel come off the back of his thigh reflexively.

“There,” he murmurs, satisfied. “That spot right there.”

“Don’t stop—” My words are lost in a whimper as I burrow my head against his shoulder again, taking the fabric of his shirt between my teeth as if biting it might help me.

“I’m not going to stop.” He drops his voice low again, and keeps his promise.