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Something primal surges through me. I stand abruptly, lifting her with me. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, and I carry her to the edge of the table, setting her down among the remnants of our meal. Wine glasses teeter dangerously. I don't care.
"Tell me to stop," I challenge, pushing her knees apart to stand between them. "Tell me you don't want this."
Instead of answering, she reaches for my tie, loosening it with surprising dexterity. Her fingers brush against my throat, and I swallow hard.
"I've made my choice," she says, her voice steadier than it has any right to be. "The question is, Mikhail Zhukov, what will you do with me now that you have me?"
The storm crescendos outside, a roll of thunder so powerful it vibrates through the floorboards. At this moment, with Kira looking at me like that, I could confess everything—the truth about my empire of blood and the danger she's in. Instead, I press my forehead to hers and breathe her in.
"I will ruin you," I promise, the words a caress against her lips. "And then I will rebuild you as mine."
Crystal and china scatter, the sound of breaking glass lost beneath another crash of thunder. Her dress pools around her like spilled ink, the silk riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of her thighs.
"Mikhail," she breathes, uncertainty flickering in her eyes for the first time tonight.
I catch her chin between my fingers, forcing her to hold my gaze. "Trust me,kisa." The endearment falls from my lips like a benediction. "I won't hurt you."
Her nod is barely perceptible, but it's enough. My hands find the hem of her dress, pushing the fabric higher until it bunches around her hips. The scrap of lace between her legs is delicate, expensive—and completely in my way.
The sound of tearing fabric mingles with her sharp intake of breath. She stares at me with wide eyes as I pocket the ruined silk, a trophy I'll keep long after tonight ends.
"Beautiful," I murmur, drinking in the sight of her spread before me like an offering. Her skin is porcelain pale in the candlelight, marked only by the flush that creeps down her throat and across her chest.
I press my palms to her inner thighs, feeling the tremor that runs through her at my touch. She's nervous—of course she is. But beneath the uncertainty, I can see the want burning in her blue eyes, the way her lips part as her breathing quickens.
"Let me taste you," I growl, my voice barely human now. "Let me show you what it means to be mine."
Before she can respond, I drop to my knees and bury my face between her thighs. The first taste of her nearly brings me to my knees—sweet and clean and utterly intoxicating. Her cry echoes off the walls as I explore her with my tongue, learning every sensitive spot that makes her arch against the table.
Her fingers weave into my hair, a hesitant dance reflecting her indecision—should she push me away or draw me nearer? I make the choice for her, my hands tightening their hold on her thighs, gently urging them apart to grant me deeper access to the intimate terrain. My tongue traces languid circles around her clit, a tantalizing tease that hovers just shy of delivering the satisfaction she craves.
"Oh God," she whimpers, head falling back, throat exposed like a sacrifice.
I hum against her sensitive flesh, enjoying the way she jerks at the vibration. "God has nothing to do with this,kisa."
She tastes like innocence and sin combined—a contradiction that matches everything about her. The knowledge that no man has tasted her like this before, that I'm the first to map the contours of her pleasure, sends a savage satisfaction coursing through me.
I slide one finger inside her, feeling her tightness, the proof of her virginity. She tenses immediately.
"Relax," I murmur against her thigh, pressing a gentle kiss there. "Trust me."
Her eyes find mine, vulnerable yet defiant. "I'm trying."
Something shifts in my chest—an unfamiliar tenderness I thought had died with Alina. I curl my finger slightly, watching her face as I find the spot that makes her gasp.
"That's it," I encourage, adding a second finger while returning my mouth to her clit. "Let go for me."
She's so wet now, her body accepting the intrusion of my fingers as I work them slowly in and out. Her hips begin to move of their own accord, seeking more, and I give it to her—curling my fingers, sucking her clit, pushing her toward the edge.
The storm outside provides a soundtrack to her moans, thunder crashing as her pleasure builds. She's close—I can feel it in the way she tightens around my fingers, in her shortened breath, and the trembling of her thighs.
"Mikhail, I—I can't—" Her voice breaks into a sob.
I look up at her without stopping my ministrations, wanting to see her face when she falls apart. "You can. Come for me, Kira."
My command seems to break something in her. Her back arches off the table, her body going rigid as the climax takes her. Her cry pierces the air, raw and honest, as she shudders against my mouth. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the aftershocks ripple through her.
When she finally collapses, boneless and panting, I rise to my feet. My own need throbs painfully, but this moment isn't about me. It's about claiming her, marking her as mine in the most primal way.