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For eleven years, I’ve waited, consumed with thoughts of her, with fantasies of what it’ll be like once she’s finally mine—and she’s still playing games, still refusing to admit the truth.
She lifts her chin, all bravery now that there are a few steps between us. “Semantics—how lovely.” Derision creeps into her tone. “I guess deals with the devil require precise wording.”
I bare my teeth in a humorless grin. “Oh, they do.”
We regard each other tensely, volatile emotions pulsing in the air between us. The distance separating us is more than physical. I can feel her walls rising, her defenses snapping back into place. Where moments ago was only tenderness, there’s now anger. On her part and on mine. Coming so close to what I want—her giving in and admitting her feelings—has only highlighted how far away my ultimate goal still is. I guess some naïve part of me has been convinced that if we ever got a chance to interact for any real length of time, she’d see what has been obvious to me all along: how perfect we are for each other. But that’s not how it’s turning out to be. Not even close.
Even though I’m her husband, she still views me as her enemy, still plans to resist me with everything she has—and I’m running out of patience.
That last bit must be reflected on my face because she blanches, taking another step back—and something inside me snaps.
“Fuck this,” I growl, and reaching her in three long strides, I sweep her into my arms.
Chapter 12
Alexei
Once upon a time, I didn’t know that lust could hurt, that desire could be pain. For my fourteenth birthday, my father paid a high-end escort to initiate me, and for the next few years, sex became a near-daily indulgence. I liked my women older, experienced, and highly skilled in bed. Models, actresses, socialites—they all gravitated toward the Leonov power and wealth. I could fuck a different woman every night, and often did. Girls my age bored me, so I didn’t bother dating. Why would I, when I could have sex without any effort or commitment? When the mere mention of my last name was enough for a fuck anytime anywhere?
My teenage self couldn’t have imagined that soon, I’d want one woman and one woman only. Or more precisely, a too-young girl—and later, a fragile, traumatized young woman—that I couldn’t allow myself to have.
Until now.
She bucks in my arms as I carry her to our bed, but I ignore her struggles. Bending my head, I capture her lips with mine. She tries to turn her head to the side, to push me away by pressing her palms against my shoulders, but I don’t allow it.
Enough is enough. I’m done letting her play these games.
Her lips part under the pressure of my hungry kisses, her hands instinctively gripping my shoulders as I sweep my tongue deep into her mouth, stoking the flames that I know burn in her. And in me.
Fuck, do I burn for her.
My cock is painfully hard inside my trunks, the wet material annoyingly restrictive. Growling in frustration, I lay her down on the bed and straighten to undress.
She scrambles back, panting, her jade eyes wide. “Alexei, please…” Her voice shakes. “Please don’t—” She chokes on the words as I push down my trunks and kick them away.
I suck in a breath as cool air washes over my engorged cock, providing a modicum of relief from the violent need pulsing inside me. All I want is to yank open her legs and bury myself in her slick heat, but that’s not what we’re doing today.
Grabbing her ankles, I drag her toward me, ignoring her ineffectual struggles. Keeping my grip on one ankle, I avoid a kick from her other foot as I flip up the skirt of her dress, baring her lower body to my gaze. Her underwear is a scrap of black lace that’s no match for my impatient fingers. A quick tug, and it joins my swimming trunks on the floor as I drink in the sight of her soft pink folds, already glistening with the telltale sign of arousal—even as she keeps trying to kick at me, still pretending that she doesn’t want this.
“Stay still,” I growl, gripping her knees to keep her in place as I kneel on the bed. “If you don’t, I’ll break my fucking promise.”
I don’t really know what I’m saying, but it must be effective because she stops struggling and freezes in place, breathing shallowly as I hook my hands under her knees and drape her legs over my shoulders, lifting her entire lower body off the bed. Then, with her pussy conveniently near my face, I begin to feast.
She cries out, her eyes scrunching shut as I drag my tongue through her folds, lapping up every drop of moisture I find. Her taste—sweet, subtly musky, and all woman—drives me wild. I eat her like a man possessed, like the starving animal I am. For years, I’ve dreamed of this, of her taste on my lips, her scent in my nostrils, her moans of pleasure in my ears, and finally, we’re here. I want to consume her, devour her, own her in every way possible. I want to command her pleasure and her pain, so I can occupy her every thought the way she occupies mine.
