Page 58 of Hostage of the Russian
“We were supposed to.” He sat up straighter, his gaze never leaving her face. “I caught an earlier flight.”
“Why?”
The question hung between them, loaded with implications she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear. Kostya rosefrom the couch with fluid grace, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
“Because I missed you,” he said simply. “Because I couldn’t stand another second of being away from you, of not being able to touch you.”
Her breath caught. The honesty in his voice, the raw need she saw flickering in his expression, sent heat spiraling through her body. This wasn’t the practiced charm he wielded like a weapon. This was something real, something vulnerable.
“Kostya...” she started, but he reached out, his fingers trailing along her cheek with reverent gentleness.
“Five days,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across her lower lip. “Five days of thinking about you, about this.” His other hand settled on her waist, pulling her closer. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
She could feel the tension radiating from him, the carefully controlled desire that made her skin tingle with anticipation. Her professional exhaustion evaporated, replaced by a completely different kind of energy.
“I missed you too,” she admitted, the confession slipping out before she could stop it.
His eyes darkened, and she saw the exact moment his restraint began to crack. “How much?”
The question was pure temptation, delivered in that low, rough voice that never failed to affect her. Instead of answering with words, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss started soft, almost tentative, but Kostya’s response was immediate and hungry. His arms came around her, one hand fisting in her hair while the other pressed against the small of her back, molding her against him. She could tastecoffee on his tongue, could feel the barely leashed power in his embrace.
“Azriel,” he breathed against her mouth, her name sounding like a prayer. “I tried to stay away. Tried to focus on business, but every night I dreamed about having you like this again.”
His confession sent a thrill through her that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with the realization that she’d been wrong. He had missed her. Maybe not as desperately as she’d missed him, but enough to abandon his original plans and come home early.
“Show me,” she whispered, the words bold and breathless.
Something primal flashed in his eyes, and then his mouth was on hers again, more demanding this time. His hands roamed her body with possessive familiarity, reacquainting themselves with every curve. She melted into him, her own hands exploring the solid planes of his chest through his rumpled shirt.
“You have no idea,” he said, trailing kisses along her jaw, “how many times I imagined coming home to you like this. How many times I had to stop myself from getting on the first flight back to Chicago.”
She shivered at the heat in his voice, at the way his teeth grazed her earlobe. “Why did you stop yourself?”
“Because I was supposed to be focused on work. Because leaving early would have been unprofessional.” His laugh was low and self-deprecating. “Turns out I don’t give a damn about being professional when it comes to you.”
The admission thrilled her more than it should have. She’d never been anyone’s priority before, never been important enough to disrupt carefully laid plans. With Kostya, she felt wanted in a way that went beyond physical attraction.
His hands found the hem of her blouse, fingers dancing along the strip of exposed skin at her waist. “Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice rough with need. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you,” she said without hesitation. “I’ve wanted you every night since you left.”
The confession seemed to break the last of his control. He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her toward the stairs. His mouth never left hers, their kisses growing more heated with each step.
“I’m going to make up for every night I was away,” he promised against her lips. “Going to remind you exactly why you’re mine.”
The possessive words should have annoyed her, should have triggered her independent streak. Instead, they sent liquid fire through her veins. She was his, had been since that first electric touch in her apartment, and she was finally ready to stop pretending otherwise.
He kicked open the door to his bedroom, their bedroom now, and set her down beside the king-sized bed. The room was bathed in moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in silver and shadow.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his hands framing her face. “So damn beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”
She reached for the buttons of his shirt, her fingers working with increasing urgency. “Then stop looking and start touching.”
His laugh was pure masculine satisfaction. “Demanding little thing, aren’t you?”
“Only with you,” she admitted, and saw the way her honesty affected him.
