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“Mina,” he says more harshly.
I focus on his eyes, on the jade-green color that shines so coldly.
He drags his palms up my back and over my shoulders until his big hands frame my face. “Do you want this?”
There are many reasons why I shouldn’t, but the truth is an easy answer. It’s one-worded and uncomplicated, devoid of who we are and what that means for the short future I have left. It only knows the undeniable pull that brings our lips closer.
He takes the last step, crushing our mouths together. The makeup sponge drops to the ground, but not before I’ve painted a streak of bronze over the collar of his shirt. I manage a feeble whimper, a weak sound of surrender, but it’s lost in the turbulent kiss that takes my reason. The whimper grows into a moan, its meaning quite different. It says how much I want him, this dangerous Russian killer.
The moment that needy sound slips into his mouth, he turns even wilder. He opens my lips impatiently with his tongue, taking as if I belong to him. The roughness of his kiss is matched only by the gentleness with which he cradles my head. He drags his hands down to my neck, one big palm fastening around my nape while the other folds around the front in a possessive hold. He keeps me in place while conquering my mouth, making sure I have nowhere to go but where he wants me.
My knees grow weak. As if sensing that little sign of submission, he grips the back of my thighs and lifts me onto his lap. My legs are stretched uncomfortably wide over the armrests as I straddle him, but I don’t care. I only care for more of him. Our chests press together, the warmth of his body seeping into me. His heartbeat reaches me through flesh, skin, and clothes. The strong, erratic beat simultaneously soothes and excites me further, the knowledge that he wants me adding to the burning heat inside me.
Impatiently pushing me away without breaking the kiss, he unbuttons my shirt. When it falls open, he takes a moment to look at me, then lowers his head and closes his mouth around my nipple. The wet, hot flick of his tongue over the unbearably sensitive tip makes me arch my back, giving him more. He closes his teeth around the tip and does that wicked thing with his tongue again. Another moan escapes my throat, louder this time.
The wet heat around my nipple disappears, and he presses a finger on my lips. “Shh.” He must not want the guards to hear.
Pulling back, he stares at my body with satisfaction and hungry lust. My nipple is hard and extended, a telltale sign of my arousal. So is the wetness between my legs. He drags a finger over my other nipple, inviting a similar reaction, then down between my breasts and over the ring in my navel, coming to a stop at the top of my slit. His gaze finds mine. I want to watch his hand, to look at the devastating work of his finger, but I’m helpless against the pull of those green pools.
Slowly, he parts my folds, reading my face. I gasp when he sweeps the pad of his thumb over my clit. Approval tightens his features as he discovers my wetness. All gentleness vanishes. He flips his hand palm up and drives a finger into my core. At the same time, he slams a hand over my mouth. My involuntary gasp as the heel of his hand slaps against my sex is caught behind his palm. With his thumb, he draws circles over my clit. I’m caught in the vise of his hand, his shirt slipping down my arms as I writhe in exquisite pleasure. Balancing me on his lap, he thrusts that one finger into me, taking me away from the harshness of my reality with a different kind of harshness. I embrace it greedily, letting him finger-fuck me in whatever way he pleases.
“That’s it,” he says with tender appraisal. “Show me how you come.”
And I do. My inner walls clench with a delicious pressure. It’s sweet freedom. Shockwaves weave through me, sending lethargic impulses to my brain. I sag in his arms, dragging in air through my nose to try and settle my ragged breathing. Dropping his hand from my mouth, he presses his lips against mine in a soft kiss.
I want to feel his skin on mine. When I reach for the buttons of his shirt, he doesn’t stop me. I unbutton them and brush the edges apart. Leaning forward, I push our chests together. I absorb as much heat as I can, letting it sink into my skin before pulling away to trace the grooves of his lean muscles. It’s a shape imprinted in my mind. The slab of his ridged abdomen is hard like marble, his skin velvety warm. The trail of hair that disappears under the waistband of his pants draws my hands. I glide my palms over his erection, tracing the outline through his pants. When I reach for his belt, he doesn’t stop me either. He lets me undo the buckle and unbutton his pants, then unzip his fly.
