Page 83 of Dirty Grovel

‘Cause I got news for the Pavlovs: To know them is toabandonan easy life.

No peace. No tranquility. No calm.

Just chaos and plots and schemes and lies.

“I’m not gonna lie: There was a time I wanted your mother’s approval. Desperately. But now, I realize I will never live up to her impossible standards. Nor do I want to. So, you can tell her from me to butt out of my life. And to keep her opinions to herself. Because I certainly don’t want them and neither—” I poke him in the chest, a lot harder than I initially intended. “—should you!”

“You’re right.”

I feel a couple of my self-righteous bubbles burst. “Wait… what?”

“You’re right,” he says again. Then he grabs me around the waist and pulls me flush against his chest. “The only opinions that matter are yours. And mine.”

Then he takes my mouth.

He claims it.

He conquers it.

I’m breathless, reeling from the sudden whiplash that has me struggling for air and for an explanation, whichever comes first.

But as his tongue wages war with mine, I realize that explanations are unnecessary.

This has always made sense.

He stumbles back, pulling me into the cabin, kissing me like he’s been waiting for weeks, months, years to do exactly this.

We barely make it to the bed. I feel my back hit the edge of the mattress, but then he swings my legs up and pushes me further onto it.

I’m vaguely aware of my clothes disappearing.

He rips my panties off with his teeth. Then he pins my wrists to the bed and enters me with a thrust so forceful that I cry out. My voice echoes across the room, but only the stars can hear me now.

He drives into me hard. Fast. With the same frantic, angry determination with which he claims my lips.

I know with each deep thrust that this is all I want. This is all I will ever want.

And yes, I am aware that Oleg Pavlov is no white knight. He’s no Prince Charming.

He will never be perfect and our relationship will always be a hollow shell of what love is supposed to be.

But right now, with me spread beneath him, filled full of him…

That doesn’t seem to matter.

We communicate only through the sound of our muffled moans, our interlinked breaths. Our bodies come together more than once. Each time he takes me, it feels like he’s transforming me.

I’m more animal than human at the end of it.

And that suits me just fine.

Animals aren’t concerned with happy endings.

Animals don’t worry about the future.

Animals couldn’t care less about the aftermath once the mating has concluded.

After the third round of frantic lovemaking, my body collapses on top of his. I gulp in air as though I’ve been underwater for hours. My skin is still slick with his sweat, my nostrils rife with his intoxicating scent.

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