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He pulls out of me, spins me around and I drag breath into my lungs. Gone is the charming Damien persona and in its place is the dangerous Ruslan Dragunov. And now I see why his sisters are so scared of him that the one even faked me being pregnant to distract him.
His hand twists in my hair and he pulls it back. “Say it, Tara.” His eyes burn into mine. “Say you’re mine and you understand what that means.”
I swallow as my eyes dance with his and I’m teetering between a state of fear and arousal. While I admit to being slightly petrified at seeing who he really is, I know it’s true. I’m his, body and soul, and there’s no going back.
21
RUSLAN
She’s still shaking as I press her back against the cool wall, her chest heaving, lips swollen from my kiss, pupils blown wide with the high I just gave her. Her skin is flushed, damp with sweat, slick where our bodies met, and I want her again already. But I don't move. Not yet. I want this image of her to be burned into my mind.
Tara, wild and wrecked and mine.
I trail my fingers down her side, then cup her face, and kiss her slowly, tasting the echo of her moans still lingering in her throat. Her fingers curl against my shoulder, soft now, like she’s too tired to resist.
But she’s watching me.
And she sees it now. The mask is gone.
No Damien. No smiles. No charming flirtation.
Just me.
Ruslan Dragunov.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn't pull away.
I hook an arm under her thighs and lift her, carrying her into the bedroom. Her head drops against my shoulder. I can feel her pulse hammering at the base of her throat.
I lay her down gently on the bed. Her hair fans out across the pillow. For a moment, I just look at her—naked, still trembling, her legs falling open as I kneel between them.
She reaches for me, but I catch her wrists and press them down.
"You don't come until I say."
Her eyes widen, breath hitching. But she nods.
I grip her thighs, pull her to the edge of the bed, and spread her wider.
Her pussy glistens, dripping from how hard I just fucked her. She's flushed and swollen, twitching every time I breathe on her. I take my time. I drag my tongue over her inner thigh, slow and deliberate, and watch her writhe.
I don’t let her come. Not yet.
I pull away just before she shatters, again and again. Her moans turn to whimpers, her fists clenching, her voice breaking. I make her beg. I make her burn. I make her feel every fucking second of this.
Because she needs to understand.
She belongs to me now.
And I will ruin her for anyone else.
When she’s sobbing with need, pleading with her eyes, I finally give in. I pull her up, flip her over, and sink into her again from behind.
She cries out, her voice raw, desperate. I pin her arms behind her back, angle her hips just right, and drive into her until the bed rattles.
She comes so hard she screams. And this time it’s my name—Ruslan—that rips from her throat.
This time, I don’t pull out. I hold her in place, spill inside her, and stay there.