Page 16 of Obsessive Vows

"And you want this?" His voice roughens, control visibly fraying. "Me?"

"Yes." The simple truth, perhaps the first wholly honest thing I've said or done in years.

For one suspended moment, he remains perfectly still, silver eyes searching mine for deception, manipulation, hidden motive. Finding none, something shifts in his expression—resolve crumbling beneath desire.

His lips meet mine with unexpected gentleness, a questioning touch that quickly transforms as I respond, pressing closer, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. The controlled operative disappears, replaced by raw hunger as his arms encircle me, lifting me effortlessly against him.

I've been kissed before—careful exchanges with appropriate suitors under my father's watchful eye, awkward fumbling around with the few boys I managed to meet during my brief university attendance. Nothing like this consuming heat, this sense of falling into something vast and dangerous and exhilarating.

We break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. "Last chance to reconsider," he murmurs, voice tight with restraint.

I answer by pulling him back to me, pouring years of suppressed desire and rebellion into the kiss. His response is immediate, control shattering completely as he lifts me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries me inside, through the living room, down the hallway to the master bedroom.

Unlike the deliberately neutral guest room, this space reveals more of the real Viktor Baranov—minimalist but luxurious, dominated by a massive bed with charcoal colored sheets. He sets me down beside it, silver eyes dark with hunger yet still watching, still giving me the chance to retreat.

Instead, I reach for the hem of the borrowed silk shirt, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion. His sharp intake of breath as he takes in my naked breasts sends a thrill of power through me—Anastasia Markov, making her own choices, taking what she wants.

"Fucking beautiful," he growls, the crude language somehow erotic coming from his cultured lips.

His hands, those deadly weapons I watched dispatch men with ease, reach for me. His thumbs brush across my hardened nipples, sending electric currents racing down to pool between my thighs. I gasp at the contact, arching into his touch as he cups my breasts, testing their weight before lowering his head to take one sensitive peak into his mouth.

The wet heat of his tongue sends a shock of pleasure through me, my fingers clutching his hair to hold him against me. "Viktor," I moan, his name a plea for more, for everything.

He moves to my other breast, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before soothing it with his tongue. "Are you sure?" he asks against my skin, one final check.

"I've never been more sure of anything." I reach for him, tugging his shirt upward, desperate to feel his skin against mine. "Show me who Viktor Baranov really is. Not the operative. Not the businessman. Just the man."

Something shifts in his expression—vulnerability breaking through the controlled exterior. He pulls his shirt off, revealing a body sculpted by combat and discipline, all hard planes and ridged muscle, marked with the evidence of a violent life—scars both old and new mapping a history of survival across his skin.

My fingers trace the cuts of his abdominal muscles, following the V-line that disappears beneath his waistband. His erection strains against the fabric, impressive even through the barrier of clothing. I trace one particularly vicious scar that curves around his ribs. "Tell me about this one."

"Knife fight. St. Petersburg. Three years ago." His voice roughens as my fingers explore the ridged tissue, then drift lower.

"And this?" I touch a small, puckered circle on his shoulder, my other hand now boldly cupping him through his pants, feeling his cock throb against my palm.

His breath hisses through clenched teeth. "Bullet. Extraction gone wrong in Odessa."

"You've lived dangerously." I squeeze him gently, watching his jaw clench with restraint.

His smile carries unexpected warmth. "Says the woman who walked alone into Bratva territory and pulled a knife on trained killers."

"Perhaps we're well matched, then." I guide his hand to the waist of the borrowed pants. "Two dangerous people making dangerous choices."

He slides the silk down my legs in one fluid motion, leaving me completely naked before him. His silver eyes darken to molten mercury as they travel across my body, possessive and hungry. "Perfect," he murmurs, dropping to his knees before me.

I gasp as his hands part my thighs, exposing my most intimate flesh to his gaze. No man has ever seen me like this—vulnerable, exposed, dripping with desire. "Viktor, what are you?—"

My question dissolves into a moan as his mouth finds me, tongue parting my folds in a long, deliberate stroke. My knees buckle, but his hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he tastes me with devastating slowness.

White-hot pleasure spirals through me as he worships me with his tongue, finding sensitive spots I never knew existed. When he closes his lips around my clit and sucks gently, I cry out, hands clutching his shoulders for support. He groans against me, the vibration adding another layer of sensation as he slides one finger, then two inside me, crooking them forward to hit a spot that makes my vision blur.

"Viktor, please," I pant, not entirely sure what I'm begging for, only knowing I need more, need him.

He rises in one fluid motion, shoving his remaining clothes down and away. My eyes widen at the sight of him fully naked—all coiled strength and lethal grace, his cock standing thick and hard against his stomach. For a brief moment, I'm uncertain—he's larger than I expected, and my experience is admittedly limited.

As if reading my thoughts, he lowers me to the bed with surprising tenderness, covering my body with his own. "We go at your pace," he murmurs, brushing hair from my face with unexpected gentleness. "Tell me if anything hurts."

Rather than answer, I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around his length, feeling the velvet skin stretched over iron hardness. His entire body tenses at my touch, a groan tearing from his throat as I explore him, learning his shape, his size, the way he pulses in my grip.

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