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"This changes nothing about our circumstances," I remind her, though the words feel hollow even as I speak them. "The arrangement proceeds regardless of personal history."

"I know." Something shifts in her expression—determination replacing vulnerability, decision crystallizing behind blue eyes. "But circumstances change. Truth matters despite the implications."

Her hands rise to my chest, no longer pushing away but resting over heartbeat I cannot fully control. The touch—simple yet devastatingly intimate—breaks final restraint between careful positioning and emotional reality.

I kiss her with none of the control that defines my existence within Markov's organization. No more assessments, no combat analysis, nothing but raw need dormant since Paris darkness. Her response matches me intensity for intensity—anger and desire and something dangerously close to genuine connection creating combustible mixture.

My hands tangle in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss as her mouth opens beneath mine. The taste of her—sweet with underlying heat—destroys the remaining vestiges of my logic. Her tongue slides against mine, confident and demanding in ways that obliterate thought beyond sensation.

We collide against antique furniture, knocking priceless artifacts to marble floor as control yields to primal need neither can fully suppress. My hands find the zipper of her dress, yanking it down with enough force to tear fabric. She makes a sound between laugh and groan, fingers working my shirt buttons with equal urgency until buttons scatter across marble floor.

"This doesn't solve anything," she gasps against my mouth, even as her body arches into my touch.

"I don't care," I growl, mouth moving to her neck, biting gently at the pulse point hammering beneath delicate skin. The taste of her, salt and sweetness combined, drives coherent thought further away.

Her nails score paths down my chest, sharp sting that heightens sensitivity rather than diminishing it. My hands cup her breasts through delicate lace, feeling nipples harden instantly against my palms. She moans, the sound vibrating against my mouth at her throat.

I tear the lace barrier away, immediately replacing fabric with my mouth, tongue circling one hardened nipple then the other as she gasps above me. Her hands clutch my shoulders, nails digging half-moons I'll wear as temporary trophies. The pain sharpens pleasure, breaking through remaining barriers of restraint.

"Viktor," she breathes, my name transformed to prayer on her lips. Her hands move lower, finding belt buckle with intentional slowness that borders on torture.

Patience shatters entirely. I lift her against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist with instinctive synchronicity. My hands push her dress higher, finding scrap of lace between her thighs already soaked with evidence of desire matching my own. The discovery—that her body wants this as desperately as mine—breaks something loose inside me.

"Tell me you want this," I demand, needing verbal confirmation beyond physical evidence. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you." No hesitation, no calculation, nothing but raw honesty in her voice. "I've always wanted you. Even when I hated you for leaving."

The confession destroys remaining restraint. I tear the lace barrier aside, fingers finding her center by memory. She gasps, head falling back against wall as I explore slick heat, finding spots that make her tremble against me.

"You're already so wet," I murmur against her throat, feeling her pulse accelerate beneath my lips. "So ready."

"Stop talking," she commands, hands fumbling between us to free me from remaining clothing barriers. Her fingers wrap around my length, grip firm yet gentle as she strokes once, twice, sending electricity racing up my spine.

We move together with perfect synchronicity, her body accepting mine with gasp that vibrates against my mouth as I capture hers again. The sensation of being inside her after one year of absence, of memory preserved but reality surpassing recollection, strips away civilized veneer entirely.

"Fuck," I growl against her mouth, the vulgarity escaping without conscious thought. "You feel incredible."

Her legs tighten around my waist, heels digging into my lower back to drive me deeper. "Then move," she demands, authority in her voice despite vulnerable position. "Show me this wasn't just calculation."

The challenge ignites something primal within me. I comply with a hard thrust that makes her gasp, establishing a rhythm that walks the perfect line between pleasure and intensity. Her nails score paths down my back, adding sweet pain to overwhelming pleasure as we move together against the wall.

There's nothing gentle in our coupling—one year of absence, anger, confusion, and suppressed desire creating explosive chemistry that threatens to consume us both. Her body responds to mine with perfect memory, muscles tightening around me as I hit exactly the spot that makes her cry out.

"Yes," she gasps, voice breaking as I repeat the movement. "Right there."

I obey, angling my thrusts to hit that spot repeatedly, feeling her legs tremble around me as her breathing fractures into short gasps. My hand moves between us, thumb finding the bundle of nerves at her center, circling with just enough pressure to make her moan.

"Viktor," she breathes, my name a warning and plea combined. "I'm going to?—"

"Let go," I command against her ear, voice rough with strain as I maintain control against overwhelming urge to follow her immediately. "Let me feel you come apart."

Her body obeys even if her mind might resist, muscles clenching around me as she cries out, head falling back against wall, throat exposed in beautiful vulnerability as pleasure overtakes her. The sight of her—composed Bratva princess completely undone—pushes me toward edge I've been fighting.

Three more thrusts and I follow her over, pleasure spiking through my body with intensity that temporarily whites out strategic awareness, combat readiness, everything beyond the sensation of release and connection.

For precious moments, nothing exists beyond our joined bodies, ragged breathing gradually steadying in the quiet aftermath. Her head rests against my shoulder, legs still wrapped around my waist, my arms supporting her weight against the wall. Vulnerable position that contradicts everything I've become in pursuit of vengeance.

When clarity gradually returns, the vulnerability that follows creates dangerous opening in defenses I've maintained throughout my mission. My arms remain around her, protective instinct contradicting the distance that defines our arrangement.