Page 134 of Sweet Obsession
I stepped closer, anger cooling as I studied him. “You look... burdened. Is this about the letters? Vargas Cartel and Chernov?”
He shook his head once. “It’s handled.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
His lips lifted, but there was no humor in it. “Then don’t make me lie again.”
“Misha.”
He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, cupped my face in both hands, and kissed me. Slowly. Tenderly. As if every breath we shared was borrowed.
Goosebumps rippled down my arms.
Something in the way he touched me screamed goodbye.
My heart lurched. “Is this about tomorrow?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he guided me toward the bed, pulled me down beside him. Held me against his chest like he was trying to memorize how I fit.
“I told you,” I whispered. “You don’t have to go.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t—”
“Luna,” he said, voice raw, “If I don’t return, Nikolai knows what to do. He’ll get you out of Russia. There’s a plan. There’s a team. A helicopter. New identities.”
I flinched. “What are you talking about?”
He looked down at me, his hand tangling gently in my hair. “There’s a chance I won’t come back.”
“No.”
“Listen to me...”
“No,” I said, louder this time, climbing onto my knees, gripping his shoulders. “Don’t do this. Don’t talk like this is the end.”
His eyes burned. “I’m fighting for legacy, Luna. For a world where the name Misha Petrov means something. Where you can wake up without fearing who’s watching. Where we’re not hunted by ghosts and debts and bloodlines.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat closed around the flood of everything I felt.
“I can’t promise I’ll win,” he said. “But I promise I’ll fight like hell to get back to you.”
I collapsed into his chest. Cried until his shirt was wet. His hands held me tight, as if he could somehow anchor me to the world.
Then he kissed me again.
This time, not soft.
It was the kind of kiss that stole breath and gave fire. That said every word he couldn’t voice.
He rolled me beneath him, his body a furnace, his hands tearing my underwear away in one swift motion. His zipper rasped, and he slid into me, deep and sudden, his face etched with sorrow, his eyes locked on mine.
“You’re my fucking everything,” he growled, voice hoarse and breaking. A confession. A curse. A vow forged in ruin.
I gasped, my body arching, the stretch intense, every thrust a plea against tomorrow. He moved like a man who might never get another chance, each stroke deep, aggressive, as if he could fuck the fear out of us both.
I clung to him, my nails raking down his back, drawing blood as a moan tore from my throat—raw, hungry, defiant. I took his desperation, his unraveling grief, and gave it back in kind, refusing to let him say goodbye without burning for it.
