Page 90 of Obsessive Vows

His eyes travel over me with such intensity I can almost feel it physically. I let myself look too, taking in the body that's both beautiful and deadly—broad shoulders, narrow hips, powerful thighs, and the unmistakable evidence of how much he wants me.

We fall onto the bed together, his weight pressing me into the mattress in a way that feels like safety rather than confinement. His mouth reclaims mine as his hands explore every inch of me, learning my body all over again. His lips travel down my neck, tasting and teasing until I'm writhing beneath him.

He takes his time with my breasts, lavishing attention on each until I'm clutching at his shoulders, desperate for more. Then he moves lower, trailing kisses down my stomach until he settles between my thighs.

The first touch of his tongue makes my hips lift off the bed, a cry escaping before I can stop it. He grips my thighs, spreading me wider as he tastes me with the same single-minded focus he brings to everything. His tongue finds exactly the right spot, circling and flicking until I'm climbing rapidly toward release.

When his fingers slide inside me, curving to hit the spot that makes me see stars, I lose all control, all pretense of composure. "Viktor," I gasp, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder. "Please—I'm so close."

He doubles his efforts, pushing me higher and higher until pleasure crashes over me in waves, my body arching as I cry out his name. He works me through every aftershock, not stopping until the final tremor subsides.

Before I can catch my breath, he moves up my body, positioning himself at my entrance. His eyes lock with mine, intense and vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.

"Look at me," he says softly, one hand cupping my face. "See me, Anastasia. Not the lieutenant. Not the fiancé your father forced on you. Just me."

"I see you," I whisper, reaching up to trace the scar at his temple, the small imperfection in his jaw where it once broke. "I always have. Even when I didn't want to."

Something shifts in his expression—a wall coming down—as he pushes inside me slowly, filling me completely. When he's fully seated, he stills, our bodies as connected as they can possibly be.

"Perfect," he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine. "Like coming home."

We begin to move together, finding a rhythm that feels like we've been doing this forever. Each thrust drives him deeper, hitting places that make pleasure build impossibly fast after my first release. His controlled pace soon isn't enough—I need more, everything.

"Harder," I demand, wrapping my legs higher around his waist to take him deeper. "I'm not fragile."

Something flashes in his eyes—approval, hunger—and his control snaps. His hips drive into me with newfound purpose, each thrust precisely aimed to maximize my pleasure. The new angle has him hitting exactly the right spot, sending me spiraling toward another peak.

"Mine," he growls against my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Tell me, Anastasia."

"Yours," I gasp, the admission feeling like truth rather than surrender. My hands slide down his sweat-slicked back to urge him on. "And you're mine. Equal claim."

My words affect him visibly—his rhythm falters for a moment before he drives deeper, one hand sliding between us to circle the bundle of nerves at my center.

"Come for me again," he demands, voice rough with exertion and need. "Let me feel you."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless rhythm of his body sends me over the edge again, pleasure exploding through me as I clench around him. My release triggers his own—he stiffens above me, my name on his lips as he pulses inside me.

For a moment, he's perfectly still, suspended in pleasure before carefully lowering himself to avoid crushing me. He stays inside me, neither of us willing to break the connection yet.

We lie tangled together, his forehead resting against mine as our breathing slows. His lips brush my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth—gentle touches that feel more intimate than what we just shared.

My fingers trace the scars on his back, feeling the stories written in his skin. I should be terrified by this vulnerability—both of us naked in every way—but instead, I feel strangely safe. Protected not by security systems or tactical planning but by the man who holds me like I'm something precious.

"What now?" I ask as reality slowly creeps back in, though I make no move to pull away.

"Now I do this right," he says, pulling back to meet my eyes.

He withdraws from me with obvious reluctance, both of us gasping slightly at the loss. Rolling to his side, he props himself on one elbow and takes my hand, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that seems almost formal.

"Anastasia Mikhailovna Markova," he says, silver eyes holding mine with an intensity that steals my breath, "will you marry me? Not for the Bratva. Not for show. For us. For Sofia. For whatever we build together outside all this."

The question—so different from our cold engagement—touches something deep inside me, something I've kept walled off for years. For once, I don't analyze or strategize my response.

"Yes," I say simply, reaching up to touch his face, feeling the slight roughness of stubble against my palm. "For us. For Sofia. For something real."

His smile transforms his face completely—the dangerous operative replaced by just a man, happy and hopeful. He pulls me against him, our bodies fitting together perfectly from chest to toe.

As his lips find mine again, gentle at first but quickly rekindling to heat that promises we're far from finished, one thought crystallizes with perfect clarity:

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