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But as if I were splashed with cold water, the weight of reality crashes down on me. This isn’t right. It's a dangerous path we're on, filled with complications and repercussions we can’t comeback from. My grip on her wrists tightens momentarily before I force myself to let go and push myself off her.
She looks dazed, her chest heaving, lips swollen from our kiss. Her eyes, previously darkened with lust, now hold a hint of confusion, maybe even a touch of hurt.
"We can't," I growl, my voice rougher than I intend. "We can’t allow this to happen."
She's speechless, still processing, still coming down off the high of our intense connection. The air in the room is thick.
With one last lingering look, I turn on my heel and stride out of the gym, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and the tempest of emotions Anastasia has awakened in me. Every step away is a fight against the primal urge to go back, to claim, to consume.
As I make my exit, I can feel her eyes on my retreating form, can practically feel the mix of desire, confusion, and frustration emanating from her. This wasn't part of the plan, and now I'm left grappling with the fallout of a moment that threatens to change everything.
Chapter 8
Anastasia
My heart pounds like a war drum, echoes from the kiss replaying over and over in my mind. One moment we were grappling, wrapped up in the fight, and the next, we were tangled up in a passionate ballet of lips and tongues, desire and longing. The sensation of his hardness against me, that undeniable evidence of his want... it was intoxicating.
I try to throw myself into another round of shadow boxing, hoping to cool down and erase the memory of what just happened. Each jab, each kick, I picture landing on a phantom Samuil, but it's impossible to shake away the thoughts of how his lips felt on mine or the weight of him pressed against me. The heat of the moment, the intensity of our connection, is the only thing on my mind.
Screw it.
I drop my gloves, making a beeline for the exit. I can't—won't—leave things as they are. I have to confront him.
Minutes later, I’m outside Samuil's apartment. My knuckles slam against the wooden door with a force that speaks of my frustration and need for clarity. "Open up, Samuil!" I demand, my voice echoing down the hallway.
No answer.
Damn him.
“Come on, you coward!" I shout, the sting of his abrupt departure evident in my tone.
That seems to do it. I hear the distinct sound of a lock turning, and suddenly the door flies open, Samuil standing there, his eyes dark and stormy, jaw set in a hard line. The bare skin of his chest heaves with every breath, making it hard to keep my gaze fixed on his eyes.
“I’m no coward," he growls, his voice low and threatening. I can sense I’ve struck a nerve, took a swing at his ego, and said words that, if uttered by anyone else, would’ve been answered with fists.
My chin lifts defiantly. "Then why did you run?”
For a split second, our eyes lock, a myriad of emotions swirling between us — anger, confusion, desire. We're teetering on the edge of an unwanted confrontation, and one push might send us over the brink. But I'm ready for it, no matter where it leads.
Samuil's posture stiffens, his eyes flitting away momentarily as he searches for the right words. I recognize the familiar look of frustration, of struggling to articulate feelings, creeping into his features. I’ve seen it countless times before when he's tried to communicate in situations that don't involve brute force.
"You know it's not that simple, Ana," he mutters, his gaze fixed firmly on a point just over my shoulder.
I step closer, shortening the distance between us, hoping he’ll make eye contact. "Then make it simple. Talk to me."
But he's already shaking his head, a weary resignation in his eyes. "You know me. I've never been good at expressing myself with words."
A sigh escapes my lips, my impatience mounting. "I know, but..." I pause, biting my lower lip as an idea forms. I takeanother step, forcing him to look at me. "If you can't tell me how you feel, then show me."
His eyebrows knit together, a confused expression shadowing his face for a second. But as the implication of my words sinks in, his dark eyes burn with intensity, raking over my form. I feel the weight of his gaze and the sexual tension hanging thick between us, threatening to ignite at any moment.
We stand motionless and silent for a heartbeat, suspended in the intensity of our connection. I wait for him to act, to take the next step, to bridge the gap between words unspoken and feelings unexpressed. The ball is in his court now.
The air between us vibrates with an almost electric charge, a crackling tension we've both been denying for far too long. Then, like magnets, we are pulled together, our lips colliding with a fervor born of suppressed desires. His mouth is demanding, his kiss stealing every ounce of rational thought from my brain. The sheer passion behind the kiss and the intensity of the moment causes my knees to wobble.
He pulls back momentarily, eyes hooded, voice laced with a mix of lust and conflict. "Ana, this is... God, this is such a bad idea."
The audacity of his statement, the contrast of his words versus his actions, causes a chuckle to escape—a soft, breathy sound against his lips. "Is it now?" I challenge, a smirk forming as I slide a hand up his chest, feeling the hard plane of his muscles.
