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The air stutters out of my lungs. “What?”
He takes my hand and runs it over the first scar. “When you were five, the Povlovs tried to kidnap you. I intercepted their men making their way up the stairs to your room while you slept.”
Ignoring my gasp, he moves my hand to the next, a raised scar, more of an oval between his heart and shoulder. “When Vlad was attacked in the schoolyard, your father ordered another child’s death, despite my protests. The family, in turn, went after you. This was the bullet they aimed at your head the next day at the park.”
A soundless tear breaks free and streams down my face, tumbling into the hair at my temple. “How many scars are from protecting me, Kostya?”
“All of them.” Tipping my face up to his, he brushes at the damp skin beneath my eyes. He can’t see one single bit of me, but it doesn’t matter. He’s so attuned to my proximity, he doesn’t need light.
He knows every square inch of me, without ever having memorized my body with his own hands.
Our history goes so much deeper than even I know.
“This is your love for me,” I whisper as I finally understand everything… and perhaps nothing at all.
“Yes, Pcholka. You were born to your mother and father, but make no mistake, you’ve always been mine.” His voice deepens, turning gruff and jagged with the words that follow. “What you’re asking of me—it’s not so easy for me to accept whatever this is between us.”
“You know what it is, Kostya.” His admission, even as he evades the stark truth, gives me a kernel of hope and for right now, it’s enough.
With a snarl of pure aggravation rumbling from his throat, he snatches my hand from his chest.
“What—”
“I smell you, dammit!” Grasping the fingers I had buried between my thighs, he brings them to his lips.
When his hot, wet mouth closes over my fingers, my eyes roll back in my head. The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh with every hum that vibrates over my skin. Each sweep of his tongue around each digit leaves me gasping and frantically clutching him with my free hand.
“What have we done, Pcholka?” His anguished murmur over my fingers sends me in a spiral of longing. I can’t stay still, every part of me seeking, struggling to get closer to him.
Heat swallows me whole. When I cry out in sheer frustration, he’s there, his mouth on mine, devouring all my sounds like he can collect them deep inside and keep me to himself.
I reach for him. With one brush of my hand, I find him hard and heavy between us.
“No. Not that. Not here.”
“I swear to God, if you don’t—”
At his deep anguished laugh, the words die in my throat. “You need relief,” he murmurs, raining kisses along my throat.
“Please… I can’t—” He bites the tendon in my neck, plunging me into desire so fast and hard I’m grinding helplessly against him, the sound of my whimpers mixing with our heaving, ragged breaths.
Curling his large, strong hand along the back of my thigh, he opens me, dragging my bent knee over his hip. So freaking close, but not close at all.
But then his thigh is lodged against the heart of me and his hand slides to my ass where he guides me into alleviating the ache.
“That’s it,” he whispers over the shell of my ear, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine and goosebumps over my skin. “Ride me, Pcholka. Take what you need.”
I hate his words, because they mean only right now, in this moment cloaked in darkness. I’m only to ride his thigh until I come when what I really need is to control my destiny. To not let something like my innocence be the pawn between superpowers.
And as angry as it makes me, every flex of his thigh grinding along my clit swipes at my ultimate goal. The torture of wanting him for so long is so great, I can’t help but take this—take the little he’s offering me.
My belly jumps as my need coils impossibly tight. In my eagerness to ride him hard, I’m bowed off the bed, but he’s holding me, always keeping me from falling.
Even now, he’s torturing himself, giving me just enough, but keeping us both from tumbling, and the truth of that burns through me as the first waves of my orgasm take hold.
I love and hate him for it.
As I break, as the sharp pleasure slices through me, I’m beating at his chest, thrashing in his arms, loathing how he’s the last lock to my freedom. An immovable force sacrificing himself to keep me caged in a reality I detest with everything I am.
