Page 32 of Twisted Fate

“Damian?” His name is barely a whisper, a question… an invitation.

“Alina.” His voice is a low growl, velvet and whiskey with a hint of gravel. Just the way he says my name sends a shiver of lust through me.

I surge to my feet as he comes nearer, then back away.

“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.

“A terrible idea,” he agrees. “And I don’t fucking care.”

There’s something wild about him tonight. Something feral and dark.

Well…darker than usual.

“Did something happen?” I ask, clicking on the lamp. I gasp. His hair is a damp, tousled mess. His right eye is swollen and bruised, his knuckles cracked and bloody. And he’s staring at me with brazen hunger, like he wants to eat me alive.

“Something happened,” he says. “And I came here. To you. Don’t fucking ask me why because I have no fucking clue.”

“I—”

“Take your clothes off, Alina.” A command. It touches something deep inside me, something that aches to obey. His words, the low tone of his voice, the expression on his face all turn me on.

Still, I shake my head, backing away until there’s nowhere for me to go, my back pressed against the cool glass of the window.

“Please,” I whisper, but I don’t know what I’m asking for.

He keeps coming until he’s a foot away, his gaze roaming my face, my body. “Clothes. Off.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding, my mouth dry. I could tell him to go. I could say no.

But I don’t.

The seductress buried deep inside me roars to life, wanting—needing—his eyes on me. Slowly, so slowly, I peel off my top. I’m not wearing a bra. My nipples harden in the cool air. His gaze drops to my naked breasts, his expression hungry and savage, twisting a knot of desire low in my belly. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my yoga pants and panties, shimmy them down over my hips, my thighs, my calves, then I kick free of them and straighten, my chin high, shoulders back.

In one swift motion, he pulls me to him. His lips are on mine, demanding and fierce. Teasing. Tormenting. Tongues tangling, teeth grazing, a clash of dominance and submission.

He kisses me like I am air to a drowning man, like I am all he needs or will ever need.

Heat roars along my veins, leaving me dizzy and weak. He has one arm around my waist. If it wasn’t, I’d be a boneless puddle on the floor. His free hand roams up my body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Tangling his fingers in my hair, he tips my head back. His lips move to my neck, sucking, biting, leaving marks. Want and need arrow through me. He smells incredible, hints of citrus and musk.

I twine my fingers in his damp hair, silky soft.

He tastes me, his tongue moving down my neck, over my collarbone, then tracing the swell of my breast. He takes my aching nipple in his mouth, licks the sensitive peak, bites me, just hard enough to make me cry out and arch my back. He pinches my other nipple, his fingers wicked, making me whimper. Panting, I pull him closer, aching for his touch.

Rearing back, he studies me, his eyes dark and fathomless, heavy lidded with lust.

“Hands above your head,” he orders.

The words coupled with the tone of his voice reach inside me and make me long to obey his every command. My back presses to cool glass as I lift my arms and press the backs of my hands against the window.

His mouth moves hungrily on mine, exploring, tasting. Claiming. His kiss is like the best wine, like ambrosia. Hot, heavy, raunchy lust spirals through me. My heart races, my legs tremble.

His hand slides to my hip, then lower, his fingers easing between my legs. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “So tight.”

I moan as he slides his fingers inside me, curling them to touch me exactly the way I need. I reach for him and he stills, denying me.

“Hands above your head, Alina. Keep them there. You move only when I give you permission.”

“Damian.” His name is a plea, a prayer. I want to touch him. I want to feel the hard planes of his body. I want to wrap my fist around his cock.

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