Page 32 of Imperfect Desires

Yes, I do. I know exactly what I want. And that’s the problem.

The memory of his mouth on mine has been stitched into my thoughts like thread through silk. It’s not going anywhere, no matter how much I want to pretend otherwise.

I push away from the desk with a frustrated breath, dragging my hands through my hair. The cool air outside the tall windows doesn’t help. Neither does the silence.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing like that—just breathing, staring, thinking—when I hear the sound of my door opening and closing.

I already know who it is even before I turn, because his scent that is uniquely him has already drifted into my nostrils.

He looks larger than life, holding a thin folder in his hand. He’s wearing black again—slacks and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the veins and tattoos along his forearms and the faint marks of old scars near his wrist.

His eyes land on me.

“Viktor asked me to drop this off,” he says, voice low.

“You could’ve emailed it.”

He places the folder on the edge of my desk. “Hard copies.”

I nod but say nothing. My fingers hover near the laptop touchpad, unmoving.

He doesn’t turn to leave. Not right away. Lev glances around the room, eyes trailing over the bookshelves, the neat stack of reports beside my desk, the untouched breakfast.

“You always work through meals?” he asks.

“Only when I’m avoiding looking at invoices that make me want to stab someone.”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. It’s brief, but it’s there.I look up at him, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. The air shifts. I can feel it like the weight of a storm rolling in.

He should leave. He came for business. He should’ve dropped the folder and left. But he doesn’t move. And neither do I.

My breath stutters when he steps closer. Just enough to make the space feel smaller.

“Alina,” he says quietly.

That’s all it takes. My name in that voice—deep, gruff, low like smoke. I walk towards him, nearly knocking the chair behind me. Lev doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay locked on mine, unreadable.

“What are you doing to me?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

His hand reaches up slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is feather-light, almost reverent.

And then he kisses me.

There is no hesitation. No warning. His mouth crashes against mine, and I’m pulled straight into the eye of the storm. I gasp into him, clutching at his shirt, fingers fisting into the fabric as he presses me back against the desk.

He lifts me onto it like I weigh nothing, stepping between my legs without breaking the kiss. His hands are on my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me to him like he needs this just as badly as I do.

When he pulls back, I feel breathless. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His eyes say everything. That he’s been fighting this, and he’s done fighting.

Lev’s hand slides up my thigh, under the hem of my dress. My ears buzzes with crashing sounds only I can hear, but I don't stop him. His fingers trail higher, brushing over silk and lace, slipping beneath it with devastating ease.

I arch into him without thinking, without shame.

He finds me already wet, and his growl vibrates through his chest.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he mutters, kissing down my throat.

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