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“Ah, so you want me to go easy on you?”
“I want you to leave me alone,” I reply, my voice as steady as I can manage.
With measured steps, he closes the gap between us and presses me against the wall, his hands landing on either side of me, caging me in. He’s barely touching me, but my skin tingles all the same.
“No such luck,” he whispers.
I should be a shivering mess right now, but I'm not—the warmth radiating off him is a stark contrast to the cold dampness of my clothes.
He leans forward and inhales deeply against my neck, sending goosebumps through my traitorous body. “That was fun,” he says darkly. The air is thick and charged. “Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Closing my eyes, I attempt to shut out his closeness and the inexplicable draw I have towards him. “You’re a psychopath.”
Maybe I’m crazy too.
“You were the only one who ran in the first place. Youwantedme to chase you.” He lifts his dark eyebrows as if daring me to argue with him. “You knew this is how it would end, didn’t you? With you begging for my forgiveness.”
“The only thing I’d ever beg of you is to leave me the fuck alone.”
His eyes flash with heat that has me on edge. “In that case, beg me to leave you alone.”
This moment is not only a physical standoff; it's a clash of everything we are—his control against my dissent, his power against my stubbornness, his secrets against my determination to unearth them.
I refuse to back down, to show any sign of weakness, even as my pulse races and my breath comes in short gasps.
“No.” I stand my ground.
“So defiant, lastochka.” His hot breath grazes my ear. “Beg me to let you go,” he purrs.
My jaw hardens and I turn my head, looking purposefully away from Maxim. “I will do no such thing.”
“Hmm, have it your way.” His hands lower and grip my hips, holding me in place.
What the fuck?
He raises his knee, his thigh planted firmly between my legs.
Oh. Shit.
The gusset of my panties is the only barrier between my pussy and the fabric of his expensive Italian suit.
“This feels good, doesn’t it?”
I don’t bother voicing my objection as I struggle in his grasp. It turns out to be the wrong move. He’s holding me firmly in place, and all my thrashing about is bringing my core in contact with his very hard thigh, again and again.
A whimper escapes my lips, heat blasting through my veins.
Holy shit.
As if he knows the effect he’s having on me, he only holds me tighter, pressing his leg firmly against where I need him most.
My brain cells are scrambling, too busy fighting against the pleasure I shouldn't be feeling. Each movement, each brush against him sends waves of unwanted sensation through me. It'slike my brain has short-circuited, unable to process anything beyond this raw, physical response.
“That’s right. Get yourself off on my thigh,wife.” He spits out the last word like an insult.
He runs a single finger along my collarbone, a deceptively innocent touch. I shudder, releasing a low moan, surrendering to the sensation. How can I be responding like this, under his control and in a situation so twisted? I'm infuriated with myself, with my body's betrayal, but I’m helpless to stop it.
“That’s it. Keep going. Rub yourself on me,” he growls, licking his lips and watching me with dark intensity, like he’s enjoying my conflicted pleasure. “Beg me to come.”
