Page 20 of Tarnished Queen

But Nikolai Zhukova shirtless is an experience that transcends circumstances.

I catch my breath at the sight of his broad chest and tapered waist. The V-cut above his hip makes my mouth water. I want to taste it. And not just because there’s still a bit of mashed potato clinging to his skin.

I squeeze my eyes closed and shake my head.

I can’t feel this way about him. I shouldn’t. The sight of his naked body should not be enough to turn me inside out.

But, stupid or not, it is. The chemistry buzzing between us isn’t bound by logic or reason. It’s animal and wild. Iwanthim.

And then an idea strikes.

I sidle closer and swipe a finger across his chest. Nikolai arches a dark brow.

“So you brought food,” I murmur when our eyes meet. “Is that all you wanted to give me?”

“What else would I give you?”

I shrug, the shoulder of my hospital gown slipping down my arm. “Clothes, maybe?”

The material drops further. I do nothing to stop it. I don’t want to. Especially when Nikolai is tracking the downward path of the gown with molten gray eyes.

It’s nice to know that, as unaffected as he may appear, he isn’t completely immune to me.

“Or,” I suggest, “maybe I deserve a punishment.”

His eyes peruse me from head to toe and back again before he takes a few measured steps forward. When he stops in front of me, I can’t resist reaching out and pressing a hand to his chest. His skin is hot as a brand, but I don’t mind the pain. I want him everywhere.

“Do you like punishment?”

His voice right now is melted chocolate and velvet. It’s so different than the cold detachment from the car.

I frown. “No one likes punishment.”

He reaches out and strokes a finger down my neck. “Then why did you come with my hand wrapped around your throat?”

I don’t answer. He forces me back until my legs are against the mattress. He draws a line from my throat to the bundle of nerves between my legs, and when he slides his finger inside me, he growls, “You’re so wet that I’m starting to think this won’t be a punishment at all.”

“You’re smart,” I mumble. “I’m sure you can figure out a way to torture me.”

His pupils expand, eating away the gray. Dark thoughts I would kill to know swirl through his mind.

Then he pushes me back on the bed. “Spread your legs.”

I lean back and inch my thighs apart, goosebumps blooming across my skin. Nikolai makes a disapproving groan and shoves my thighs apart wider.

“Stay like that. Don’t move.”

He smooths a calloused hand up my thigh, and I manage to hold still. But the second his finger dips into my warmth, I jolt.

His finger works a maddening circle up and down my slit and then up to my clit. It becomes a rhythm I can’t escape and, no matter how many times he repeats it, can’t anticipate. Electricity shoots through me again and again. A pressure I can’t release building until my muscles are quivering with the force of holding still.

And the only part of him touching me is a single finger. What could he do with more?

“Please,” I gasp, desperate for more of him.

He’s giving me just enough to keep me teetering on the edge, but not enough to push me over the side.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I complain, arching into his touch. “I need more.”

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