Page 32 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
The distinction mattered more than it should have.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against her mouth, his hands sliding down to cup her hips, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. “Tell me how far you want this to go.”
She looked up at him with those ice-blue eyes that had been haunting his dreams for weeks, and he could see the want there, raw and undisguised. But there was something else too, something that made his chest tight with an emotion he couldn’t name.
“I want you to stop treating me like I’m going to break,” she said, her voice breathless but determined. “I want you to stop being so careful with me.”
The words hit him like a physical blow, and he realized she was right. He had been treating her like she was made of spun glass, like she was too delicate for the rough realities of his world. But the woman in his arms wasn’t fragile. She was fire and steel wrapped in silk, and she was looking at him like he held the answers to every question she’d never known how to ask.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, but even as the words left his mouth, his hands were moving, sliding up her sides to frame her face. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“Then show me,” she challenged, and there was something in her voice that made his blood sing with possibility. “Stop protecting me from yourself and show me who you really are.”
The last thread of his control snapped like a violin string under too much tension. He kissed her again, harder this time, letting her feel the full force of the desire he’d been keeping carefully leashed. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her tongue sliding against his in a dance that made his head spin and his body ache with need.
His hands found the zipper of her dress, and he paused, giving her one last chance to change her mind. Instead, she reached between them and started working at the buttons of his shirt, her fingers clumsy with urgency but determined.
“Irina,” he said, her name a warning and a prayer all at once.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she said, her voice fierce with want. “Don’t you dare treat me like a child who doesn’t know her own mind.”
The zipper of her dress gave way under his fingers, the silk pooling at her feet like water. She stood before him innothing but a scrap of black lace that made his mouth go dry, and he realized that all his careful control, all his practiced restraint, meant nothing when faced with the reality of her.
She was perfect. Pale skin like marble, curves that made his hands itch to touch, and those ice-blue eyes that saw straight through every defense he’d ever built. She should have been intimidating, this woman who could reduce him to his most basic instincts with a single look. Instead, she made him feel more human than he had in years.
“You’re staring,” she said, but there was no self-consciousness in her voice, only a kind of female satisfaction that made him want to worship at her feet.
“Can you blame me?” He reached for her, his hands spanning her waist, marveling at how perfectly she fit against him. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
The compliment made her cheeks flush pink, and he found himself fascinated by the way the color spread down her throat to the tops of her breasts. He wanted to follow that path with his mouth, wanted to taste every inch of skin that was blushing because of him.
“Your turn,” she said, tugging at his shirt until he helped her push it off his shoulders. Her hands were small and warm against his chest, exploring the planes of muscle with a curiosity that made his breath catch. “I’ve been wondering what you looked like under all those expensive suits.”
“And?” he asked, genuinely curious about her verdict.
“Better than I imagined,” she said, her fingers tracing the lines of a scar that ran across his ribs. “What happened here?”
“Knife fight when I was nineteen,” he said, catching her hand before she could explore further. “Too young and too stupid to know when to walk away from a losing proposition.”
“And now?” she asked, looking up at him with those eyes that seemed to see everything. “Do you know when to walk away now?”
The question hung between them, loaded with implications that went far beyond the physical. Because this was a losing proposition, wasn’t it? This thing between them was growing stronger every day, despite every rational reason it shouldn’t. She was a Nikolai, he was a Volkov, and they were supposed to be enemies. Loving her was supposed to be impossible.
But standing here with her hands on his skin and her body pressed against his, impossible felt like just another word for the things worth fighting for.
“No,” he said, his voice rough with honesty. “I don’t think I do.”
She smiled then, slow and satisfied, and he realized she’d gotten the answer she was hoping for. Before he could process what that meant, she was kissing him again, her mouth hot and demanding against his, her body melting into his like she’d been made to fit there.
He lifted her then, her legs wrapping around his waist with an ease that spoke of trust and desire in equal measure. She was light in his arms, all soft curves and warm skin, and when she made that small sound of surprise as he carried her to the bed, he felt like he could conquer armies.
He laid her down with a gentleness that was at odds with the hunger clawing at his insides, taking a moment to just look at her. Hair spread across the pillows like ink, skin flushed witharousal, eyes dark with want, she was a vision that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.
“Second thoughts?” she asked, and he could hear the vulnerability beneath the challenge.
“About you? Never.” He leaned down to press a kiss to the hollow of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin and the faint sweetness of her perfume. “About whether I deserve this? Always.”
“Good thing it’s not up to you,” she said, her hands tangling in his hair as he worked his way down her body, mapping every curve and hollow with his mouth. “It’s up to me, and I’ve already decided.”
