Page 147 of Dirty Damage

Because that’s what Oleg does to me. He pulls me in even when every survival instinct screams for me to run. He makes me want to believe in fate.

In the possibility that sometimes, broken things can fit together to make something whole.

His mouth latches onto mine before we’ve cleared the breakwater, desperate and demanding. My back hits the sleek console, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the bite of chrome against my spine, the whir of the autopilot engaging.

But most of my attention is focused on the way Oleg’s hands shake as they push my sundress up over my hips.

There’s an edge to his touch today, a rawness I haven’t felt since those first desperate encounters.

He’s not just hungry.

He’sstarving.

I should slow us down. Should ask about the shadows in his eyes, the tension thrumming through his powerful body.

But then his fingers find me, and all coherent thoughts dissolve.

“Already wet for me,” he growls against my throat. His teeth scrape my pulse point. “Such a good girl.”

I don’t think “good girls” let Russian billionaires bend them over their bow in full view of several yachts close enough to see everything.

But if that’s what he calls good, then I want to be good for him.

He enters me in one brutal thrust, and I cry out, my nails scrabbling for purchase on the polished teak decking.

Anyone could see us. I should be mortified, but it just makes me wilder.

I push myself back against him, taking him deeper, smiling as he groans. “That’s it. Take what you need, princess.”

I ride him in deep, even strokes until my legs begin to shake. My orgasm is building so fast.

Toofast. He grips my hips and drives into me. Instantly, the pleasure crests.

I cry out a second before Oleg follows me over the edge. His body shudders against mine.

For a moment, we stay locked together, panting. The yacht’s engine thrums beneath us, as steady and powerful as my own heartbeat.

I’m still recovering when Oleg grabs my wrist and pulls me towards the stern.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he pushes me against the railing.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

There’s something frantic in his words. Like he’s running from something by burying himself inside of me.

I know the strategy well.

I lean against the railing on shaky legs, watching the way his shoulders bunch with tension under his fitted shirt. The polished deck is warm beneath my bare feet, and the wind whips harder here.

He bends me over the railing without ceremony. The metal is sun-warmed against my palms, and far below, turquoise water churns in our wake. We’re fully out of the harbor now, nothing but ocean ahead.

This time, when he takes me, it’s slower, but no less intense. His chest presses against my back, one arm banded around my waist while the other grips the railing beside mine. He’s caging me in, protecting me from the pitch and roll of the waves.

“Look how far we are from shore.” He grips my chin, forcing me to look back over our shoulders as he drives into me. “No one to hear you scream. No one to save you.”

I wonder if he’s trying to scare me, but then I see the haunted look in his eyes. It’s like he’s somewhere else, on another boat, another day, another ocean.

The dying sunlight turns his scars gold, and I remember where he got them.

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