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I hold out my hand to her, but she just stares at it as if it’s a bomb that will go off at any time. She may not be wrong. I will explode if I don’t know her touch.
“I know who you are,” she says coldly, though there’s a hint of intrigue in her voice. “That isn’t what I asked. Because unless you’re God himself, you can’t get me out of this church without incurring my father’s wrath.”
She has a point there. Reasons number one through one million why running away with her is a bad idea. But I can’t stop myself from needing to whisk her away. Consequences be damned.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I say. “You don’t love this man you’re about to walk down the aisle with. Am I correct?”
Her eyes are wide and her chest moves rapidly. Heat rises to her cheeks, coloring her face in a soft pink. It is now my life’s mission to cause this reaction every time we meet. She’s so quietly sexy. She needs a man who knows what to do with her.
“He’s an old family friend,” she says. “It doesn’t matter if I love him, marrying him is expected of me. I have to marry him.”
“But you’re so young,” I say sadly. “Don’t you want to do something more interesting than marry some idiot?”
Her nostrils flare, and I know I have her pegged. She doesn’t want this. She’s doing it out of some warped sense of duty or family obligation, but she wants so much more out of her life than to marry the Zaitsev boy.
“That isn’t your business,” she hisses. “And what makes you think I’d be more likely to marry you than my fiancé?”
She pins me with a glare, and if I were a weaker man, I’d back down. But I know what I want, and it’s her.
“I can think of one reason,” I say, stepping into her space.
She swallows hard as I wrap my arm around her supple waist and pull her curvaceous frame to me. She lets out a quiet gasp, which only makes me grow harder. I want her. Here. Now. And then later and everywhere. I want her naked in my bed, waiting for me when I come home every day. I want her in my limousine, on her knees. I want to see those gigantic breasts spilling out in front of my eyes.
Right now, I’ll settle for her soft body pushed up against the bathroom wall. My lips capture hers confidently, and I can tell she’s never been kissed. At the very least, not properly. Her lips are innocent, stiff against mine. Her whole body is like a ragdoll against me. If she pushes me away, I’ll stop. I’ll leave her alone and return to my seat. I’ll watch her marry the wrong man and throw rice at the unhappy couple as they walk up the aisle hand in hand.
She doesn’t push me away, though. Her body relaxes at my touch, and her lips begin to move in rhythm to mine. Now that I have her consent, I let my tongue trail her bottom lip. She is weak against me, probably battling the indecision in her head. But her lips part for me, allowing my tongue to slide inside.
She lets out another small gasp and pushes her body closer to mine. Her damn dress is like another person between us, keeping me from groping at those tender places I’m so desperate to get my hands on. Which is probably what her mother wanted. If I know Russian mothers, the goal when picking the wedding dress is to find the largest, most uncomfortable garb to keep the young bride away from her betrothed before the wedding.
It’s an old tradition, going back to the old country. This young bride wants to be touched, though. She wants to be tasted. Her unbridled passion is spilling out, palpable through the twenty layers of her dress. I wonder if this is nervous energy directed toward her future husband, though I highly doubt it.
I’ve met the Zaitsev boy, and he’s a real piece of work. In comparison to her innocence, he’s a rogue, bedding as many women as will let him. I’ve seen him out at the Bratva clubs, touching women and buying their affection with his money. He’s a greedy bastard who wants whatever he can get.
If she does love her betrothed, I’m saving her from an unfaithful man who can’t keep his hands from wandering. If she doesn’t love him, there’s no harm in this dalliance. I can save her from a life with a man who can’t possibly earn her. I can give her a life that he never could.
She wants me. I can tell she wants me, but like me, she is weighing all the consequences. She doesn’t know that I have a plan. That I will take care of her and ensure her safety. There’s no reason that she should trust me, so I convey all of my passion in my kiss. My lips have to tell her of my fidelity if my words can’t.
My tongue slides into her mouth, immediately addicted to the taste. She sighs against my mouth, and my tongue explores deeper, wanting to uncover all of her secrets. Who is this sassy woman who’s willing to give up her independence to a boy who doesn’t appreciate her? How did she end up in this situation?
Her body tells me things her mouth never will. She’s desperate and inexperienced, but there’s strength there. I know no daughter of Dimitri Mikhailov would allow me to kiss her so thoroughly if she didn’t want it. I’m sure she’s been taught to fight.
Her surrender against my body tells me she’s enjoying this as much as I am. The sounds she makes, without meaning to, I’m sure, tell me she wants more. I need to get her out of here and rip this ridiculous shroud of fabric off her body. It serves only to impede my hands. There must be ten layers of fabric between the two of us, and it’s my mission in life to tear them all away.
I wonder if she would let me. I wonder if she would give me that access. She’s been a willing accomplice so far, but how much further will she let me take this? I wonder what would happen if my hand were to find its way under the mountain of fabric to her sex. Would she push me away or pull me closer?
Her soft moans suggest she would invite my touch. She craves it. This girl has never known such passion in her life, and she wants to experience every ounce of it. If we’re caught, she’s absolutely ruined and will probably be ousted by her family. But she’ll be set free from this prison she’s in. She can walk away from this marriage she clearly doesn’t want and into my willing and ready arms.
She just has to say the word. She has to tell me she wants to run away with me. I’ll make it happen for her. From the way I’m losing myself to her already, I’m sure I’d do absolutely anything for her. Rescuing her from this sham of a marriage is only the beginning. I’ll make her mine, possess her until she can’t tell the difference between my skin and hers.
I need to get this dress off her. I need to see her body underneath, need to claim her sex with my mouth. I need to slide my fingers inside of her and feel the wetness there for me. She whimpers against me, and it’s like I can feel it already. She’s so desperate for this, so open for it. She needs to be shown what it means to be thoroughly and properly fucked.
I’m the man to do it, if only there were time. Someone will come looking for her soon enough. She’s the bride after all. She’s basically the star of the show. So I’ll enjoy her until then, going as far as she’ll let me until we’re found in our little paradise.
Then, I’ll whisk her back to my home and truly make her mine. I’ll have her screaming my name in a matter of seconds. I shudder against the thought, and she pulls me closer to her, chasing that feeling with me. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. I’m rock hard against her, not that she’ll be able to feel me through her dress.
Would she even know what to do with my erect member? No, I’m sure she wouldn’t. I’ve met her mother at community events, and she’s the kind of woman who’s trained her daughter to keep her legs closed until marriage. The poor girl. No wonder she’s so willing to be swept into this romantic fantasy. She’s probably bursting at the seams to be touched by a man.
When she’s truly mine, I’ll give her all the pleasure she can handle. I’ll show her every second of every day how much I truly desire her. I’ll show her the ways of pleasure and unlock all of her secret desires. Now, though, I enjoy the way she rubs herself against me, unaware of how much she’s lighting me on fire.
