Page 66 of The Pucking Arrangement

A slow, deep shudder rolls through my body, locking my knees, tightening my grip on the weight rack like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.

“Have you changed your mind,solnyshko?” His accent is thick, each word dripping like dark honey. “About doing independent research? On those proportions?”

I can’t answer. My brain is blank, wiped clean by the ghost of his touch, by the unbearable want coiling low in my belly. My skin burns.

Then he leans in, just enough that his breath skims down my neck.

“You were testing my control,” he breathes. His exhalation is hot against my skin, his voice a slow, deliberate tease, a tantalizing promise just out of reach. “Yesterday, at the museum.”

“I wasn’t—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a quiet, knowing hum.

“You were.”

The air thickens. Heat radiates from him, surrounding me, making it impossible to think, to move.

“You wanted to see what would happen.”

He’s not touching me. Not really.

But fuck, it feels like he is.

“And now you know.”

His words are like phantom kisses on my skin, each syllable a featherlight caress that makes me shiver. My knees buckle as he breathes along my shoulder, slow, possessive, igniting every nerve with fire.

“Why were you holding back?” My voice is barely a whisper, my whole body thrumming.

He exhales sharply, like he’s still fighting himself.

“I promised your brother I wouldn’t touch you.”

“You haven’t broken that promise,” I point out, breathless. Reckless.

A slow, dangerous smirk curves his lips. “Not yet.”

“Dmitri—”

I don’t even know what I’m asking for. But he does. His chuckle is wicked, a ghostly caress against my collarbone.

“So responsive.” His voice dips into something richer, something decadent. His breath brushes over my arm, tracing goosebumps in its wake. “Look how you shake for me.”

My grip on the rack tightens. Desperate.

“And I haven’t even touched you yet.” His voice turns husky, silk and steel wrapping around me. “I bet you’re wet for me too.”

I whimper. A real, honest-to-God whimper.

“Please—”

His breath hitches. “Please what,solnyshko?”

“Touch me.”

His inhale is sharp, ragged. Like I just unraveled him as completely as he’s unraveling me.

Then, finally, his fingers graze my collarbone. The lightest, most maddening touch. Controlled. Measured. Cruel.

My knees actually buckle.

---