Page 12

Mikhail

K ira’s mouth is soft fire against mine and every rational thought I've ever possessed burns to ash. The taste of wine on her tongue, the way she yields and then demands in equal measure—Christ, she's going to be the death of me.

My hands find the silk of her dress, bunching the fabric as I pull her closer. She shifts in my lap, and the friction nearly undoes me completely. I've had women before—many women—but none who've made me feel like I'm drowning and being saved all at once.

"You taste like sin," I murmur against her throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the delicate skin there. Her pulse flutters like a caged bird beneath my lips, and I can't resist the urge to bite gently. She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.

"Mikhail..." His name on her lips is better than any prayer I've ever heard. She rocks against me, unconscious and devastating, and my control frays further.

The storm outside mirrors the chaos in my chest. Rain lashes the windows while thunder shakes the walls, but all I can focus on is the way she melts against me, how her auburn hair spills over my hands like liquid copper.

"Look at me," I command roughly, pulling back just enough to see her face. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, her eyes dark with desire and wine. Beautiful. Dangerous. Mine.

"I'm looking," she whispers, and there's something in her gaze that stops my heart—trust, want, and something deeper that I don't dare name.

I trace the line of her jaw with trembling fingers. When did my hands start shaking? "You don't know what you're doing to me, kisa ."

Her smile is pure temptation. "Show me."

The words break something fundamental inside me.

I capture Kira's mouth again, hungry and desperate, pouring years of loneliness and pain into the kiss.

She meets me stroke for stroke, her hands fisting in my hair, and I forget everything except the weight of her in my arms and the storm that rages both outside and within me.

Lightning flashes, illuminating her face in stark white before plunging us back into the amber glow of candlelight. In that brief moment, I see everything—her vulnerability, her courage, the calculation behind her eyes. She's testing me as much as I'm testing her.

I slide my hand up her spine, feeling each delicate vertebra through the silk. When I reach her nape, I tangle my fingers in her hair and tug—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to assert control. Her eyelids flutter, pupils dilating.

"Is this what you expected when you agreed to marry me, Kira Malakhov?" My voice is gravel, barely recognizable to my own ears. "To be devoured?"

She hums, the sound both nervous and aroused. "I don’t know what I expected. I wasn’t sure you’d want me for more than my money.” The confession stuns me. Has she looked in a mirror? Does she not see what I see?

"Foolish girl," I murmur, tracing the curve of her collarbone with my thumb. "I've wanted you since the moment I first saw you.”

Her breath catches. "Did you?"

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.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, watching as she struggles to focus, her eyes hazy with pleasure.

Her chest heaves with each breath, her lips parted and swollen from our kisses.

She's never looked more beautiful—disheveled and satisfied, sprawled across my dining table like the feast she is.

"Still think I only want you for your money?" I ask, my voice rough with restrained desire.

A surprised laugh escapes her, and she covers her face with her hands. "I don't know what to think anymore."

I gently pull her hands away, needing to see her. "Think that you're mine now. In every way that matters."

Something flickers in her eyes—not quite surrender, but acceptance. She reaches for me, drawing me down for a kiss that tastes of her own pleasure and something deeper, something dangerous.

"And are you mine?" she whispers against my lips, the question hanging between us like a challenge.

The honest answer terrifies me. Instead, I brush my thumb across my wife's lower lip and say, "Let's get you to bed, kisa . The night is far from over."