Page 6 of Claimed By Desire

Softened and muted by the post-orgasm haze, but still.

I’m suddenly very aware of what just happened.

With much less grace than I would like, I get off his lap and back away. He stays there, cock still half-hard, staring at me with a dark look in his eye. He looks like a conguering Viking, rippling with muscle, dick still twitching and shining with my wetness, staring at me like he’s going to fuck me into pieces.

“That was, uh, unexpected,” I finally manage to say, looking around for my underwear. I find them on the floor near the coffee table and yank them on followed by my shorts.

He doesn’t rush to get dressed.

“It’s definitely not what I thought would happen when I came here,” he admits, sounding almost lazy about it.

“Whatdidyou think would happen?”

“I figured I’d find Little Nat playing socialite on the Champs-Elysees, wrapped in furs and dripping in diamonds. Not… this.”

If I weren’t already overheated and sweaty, I’d be absolutely pink with fury. “What do you meanthis?”

“This apartment. It’s not really you.”

“And what do you think I am?”

“Five-star hotels and maid service.”

I pick up a book and throw it at him. He easily swats it away, smiling with a half-lidded, sexy stare.

“You don’t know me anymore, Sorokin.”

“I don’t know about that, Little Nat. I think we know each other quite well by now.”

“Fuck you, asshole.” And the spell is on the edge of breaking. Now I remember why I dislike Alex so muc.

The primal way he stormed back into my life again and took me like I’ve always been his to fuck and use is fading.

“Actually, about that.” He stands and tugs his boxer briefs back on. But he doesn’t bother with his suit pants. He lets his jacket fall away and begins to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Undressing. It’s hot as fuck in here.”

“Uh, stop? Keep your clothes on and tell me why you’re even here.”

“I don’t want to get into that yet.”

My mouth falls open when the shirt drops off. His body his tanned and sculpted with muscle. Every inch of him is marked by either a tattoo or a thick knot of scar tissue. There are dozens of scars in all different shapes and sizes: puckers and slashes, tears and strips. And that’s not even mentioning the knives and the skulls, the blood and the strange vista of trees and lakes snaking around his chest.

His body is a canvas of pain and art, and it’s beautiful.

I can’t look away.

“You promised,” I say very weakly as he comes closer.

“And I’ll keep my promise, but the second we start talking about home is the second this—“ He gestures between us. “Will cease to exist. And I’m not done with you yet.”

A thrill runs in between my legs. I start to back away from him. “Who says I want more from you? You broke into my apartment. You watched me playing piano naked. You’re a creep and an asshole.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“So tell me why I shouldn’t run screaming?”

---