Page 11 of Cinderella and the Daddy
This is insane.
Instead of being sensible, I grab fistfuls of his black shirt and pull him closer.
He pins me back against the car, his body caging me in. I can feel just how hard and broad his chest is. Every rational thought evaporates as his hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the cotton of my tank top.
"Luka," I gasp against his mouth.
"Say it again." His lips trail down my throat, teeth scraping sensitive skin.
“Luka."
The virgin thing hovers at the edge of my consciousness, something I should probably mention. But his mouth is doing things to my throat that short-circuit speech, and gentle isn't what I want anyway. I want him wild. I want him to lose control because of me. His palms brand paths along my skin, rough fingertips tracing the curve of my waist, the hollow of my collarbone. Each touch sparks nerve endings I didn't know existed. Heat pools low in my belly, a molten ache that makes me arch into him.
Fuck it.
I arch into his touch as he works the tank top over my head. The cool air hits my bare skin, but his mouth is there instantly. Theblack satin against my skin suddenly feels deliberate, chosen. Every piece of clothing he'd had delivered was black. Did he imagine this moment when he selected them? Did he picture his hands sliding beneath this exact bra, these specific lace panties? The thought sends liquid heat through my veins. He pushes the black satin bra up, exposing my full breasts. His mouth closes over one nipple. His teeth tug and nip, sending delicious pain through me. He quickly soothes the sting with a lick and kiss.
The snap of my jeans opening echoes through the garage. Panic flutters in my chest, not fear of him, but fear of how much I want this. 'Luka.' His name comes out breathless, not a protest but a plea. He pauses, hazel eyes searching mine, waiting for permission I'm desperate to give. His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my jeans, and I grab his wrist.
"Wait."
“You want me,” he says.
I do.
I do want him.
I want to fuck the man who kidnapped me.
"I..." The words stick in my throat.
His thumb maps the line of my jaw with unexpected tenderness. “Dikaya.”The foreign word rolls off his tongue like a caress, all dark velvet and promise. I don't understand Russian, but I understand the hunger in his voice, the way it makes my skin pebble with goosebumps. I’m ready.
He kisses me again, slower this time, but no less consuming. His tongue explores my mouth. His hands massage my breasts.
“Lift,” he orders.
I know what he’s asking.
And like a damn fool, I do it. He jerks my jeans down, pulling off my shoes before removing them. His eyes go to the black thong.
I lift again, but he simply jerks once, then a second time, and shreds the lace.
“Your car,” I murmur with my bare ass against the hood.
He says nothing as he quickly undoes his pants. His erection springs free.
Oh hell no.
This is not going to work. I want to get laid—not impaled.
I push against his chest. “Luka, that’s not happening.”
His lips quirk, almost a smile. And then his hand is between my legs. He steps closer, forcing my knees to part. His fingers slide into me.
I can’t breathe.
“Please,” I gasp.
