Page 4 of Claimed By Desire

Natalya

The atmosphere in my tiny little apartment is charged with electricity as I play for him.

He starts out across the room, watching and listening, his eyes heavy and half-lidded, looking like sex and sin. He’s gorgeous, and I remember all over again why I’ve always tried to keep my distance—Alexander Sorokin is dangerous as hell. Both for me, and for everyone else around him.

But soon he drifts closer. I finish the first song and transition into another, even though he didn’t ask for more than the one. He lingers behind me, near the couch, and I can feel his eyes on me. I can almost taste his unwavering attention. It’s overwhelming and intense, almost erotic in its obsession, and I’m trembling as I begin a third song.

He comes closer. Right behind me now, lurking at my back and staring at my hands as I go through the familiar rhythms. Another song I wrote while in Paris, another little slice of my gray and lonely days. It’s a slow melody, and I like to think it’s the sound of the rain on the roof across the street and distant laughter down streets I’ll never bother exploring.

I should stop. Especially when I start playing the fourth and his hands gently touch my shoulders. Not in a commanding way, but more like he’s letting me know that he’s right at my back, and slowly his fingers move down to my collarbone as I keep playing, my breath coming in rapidly and deep.

Fear and excitement rip into my chest, and I know I should tell him to stop, I should push back and end this madness.

I should do a lot of things.

Why’s he even here? Where did he come from? And why am I playing right now instead of talking about any of that?

His hand cups my breast and gently teases my stiff nipples. I miss a note but keep going, biting my lip to keep a moan in my throat. God, it feels so fucking good to be touched right now. I didn’t even know how badly I needed this.

If this had happened even a few weeks ago. If Alex had shown up out of nowhere two months back. If he’d come at any other time?—

This never would’ve happened.

I would have found some tiny shred of sanity left inside of me and I never would have sat back down on this piano bench.

And I definitely wouldn’t let him touch me.

Instead, he’s here at my lowest, when the bite of my loneliness and the bleak, never ending gray of my depression is close to drowning me.

But he’s here, keeping me afloat, and his hands explore my chest and my shoulders, and I let out a pathetic whimper, a noise I’ve never made in my entire life.

It disrupts my playing enough that I stop. Slowly, I turn to face him.

A thousand words are on my tongue. I want to yell at him, beg him to make me understand why he’s in Paris, force him to see that what we’re doing is bizarre and totally out of character?—

Instead, our eyes meet.

His are filled with a dangerous, possessive desire, and I tilt my chin up toward him.

I’m afraid to talk. I’m afraid it might shatter the moment. This is another world, another life, like we’re living out some magical faerie tale, except a really, really dirty one. The wrong move, the wrong words could destroy the spell and send me spiraling to earth.

He reaches back and tangles a fist into my hair.

My mouth opens as my heart races into my throat.

“I’ve thought about this a thousand times,” he whispers.

And before I can make sense of that?—

He crushes his lips to mine.

I moan into that kiss, completely broken.

My brain erupts into bliss and confusion.

This isAlex. I’ve hated him for years. He treated me like trash, like I was some annoying little beetle always crawling around my own house. He’s been alternately cruel and dismissive, and I despise him for the way I’ve always been an afterthought at best.

But before that, I had the biggest, most ridiculous crush on him.

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