Page 42 of Hostage of the Russian
The short walk to the front door blurred into a series of breathless kisses and wandering hands. Kostya pressed her against the wood while he fumbled with the keys, his mouth dragging fire down her throat. She barely noticed when the lock gave way, only felt the urgency in his touch, the need simmering just beneath his skin.
“Your room or mine?” he rasped.
“Yours,” she answered without thinking, the word spilling out on a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
He didn’t question it. Just scooped her up into his arms, carrying her up the stairs like she weighed nothing. Azriel clung to him, marveling at the sheer strength of his body, the way he made her feel both delicate and powerful at once.
His bedroom was huge, larger than her old apartment, rich with dark wood and velvet textures, but she had no time to register more than shadows and warmth before he set her down at the edge of his massive bed, cupping her face in his hands.
“Are you sure?” he asked, eyes searching hers, his thumbs brushing softly over her cheeks. “Because if we do this, Azriel... there’s no going back. Not for me.”
“I’m sure,” she whispered, and she was.
The kiss that followed was different. Fierce, aching, full of a hunger so deep it bordered on reverence. His hands explored her body slowly, reverently, as though he needed to memorize her shape, learn every inch with his touch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, pressing kisses along her jaw, her neck, down to her collarbone. “So fucking perfect.”
He unzipped her dress with agonizing care, peeling it off her like a gift he’d waited too long to open. It pooled at her feet, leaving her in just her bra and panties. She should’ve felt bare, exposed, but the way he looked at her? Like she was art and fire and something holy? It made her feel powerful. Worshipped.
“Let me see you,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt.
He stripped quickly, no show, no teasing, and the sight of him stole her breath. She’dfelthis strength, but seeing it? The carved lines of his chest, the defined muscles, the golden skin dusted with dark hair—it set something low in her belly alight.
He lifted her effortlessly, laying her across the bed and climbing over her, his weight caging her in the most delicious way. The press of his body against hers was intoxicating. Grounding. Perfect.
“I want to worship every inch of you,” he said, lips brushing her skin. “Want to make you forget everything but my name.”
And then he did exactly that.
His mouth moved slowly, pressing kisses along her collarbone, the tops of her breasts, the slope of her stomach. He unhooked her bra and discarded it gently, as if it were sacred. The moment his mouth closed around her nipple, she arched off the bed with a strangled cry.
“So responsive,” he murmured, flicking his tongue over the now-sensitive peak, then dragging it slowly to the other breast. “Do you know how many nights I’ve lain in this bed, imagining you here beneath me?”
She couldn’t answer. Could only gasp, hands diving into his hair, holding him close as he took his time worshipping her chest, her ribs, her belly. Every kiss, every touch, built her arousal higher and higher, a slow, burning heat that made her writhe beneath him.
When he finally hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties, she lifted her hips in silent permission. He slid them down slowly, dragging them over her thighs, kissing every inch of skin he exposed.
“Perfect,” he said again, voice thick. “Absolutely perfect.”
Then he settled between her thighs, spreading her open with gentle hands, and looked at her like she was a feast he’d been starving for.
The first drag of his tongue over her made her cry out, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He hummed against her, pleased, and did it again, slow, deliberate, savoring every reaction. He explored her with his mouth like he had all the time in the world, alternating between broad strokes and soft flicks that sent her nerves into overdrive.
Azriel fisted the sheets, her body trembling under the slow, relentless rhythm of his tongue. He licked her with maddening precision, then sucked gently on her clit, sending white-hot shocks through her.
“Kostya, God, please,” she gasped, not even sure what she was begging for.
He didn’t answer. He just slipped two fingers inside her, slow and deep, curling them with practiced precision as his mouth returned to her clit. The dual sensation made her jerk, her whole body tensing.
“You’re dripping for me,” he murmured against her, voice ragged. “So fucking wet.”
He worked her expertly, fingers thrusting deep, mouth drawing tight circles that sent her spiraling higher with every second. She moaned, whimpered, and cursed his name. Her hips rolled up against his face, and he groaned into her, holding her open as if he couldn’t get enough.
Her thighs started to tremble. Her stomach clenched. Pressure coiled inside her, hot and sharp andclose.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, voice hot against her skin. “Let go. Come for me.”
And she did, hard, her whole body shattering as the orgasm tore through her. She cried out, shaking, clutching at the sheets as pleasure crashed through her in waves. He didn’t stop,kept licking her through it, fingers slowing only when she was wrung out and gasping.
