Page 88 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

Tonight, we might as well be alone and pretend we’re the only two who live here.

I lead her upstairs, each step adding to the tension coiling between us. The hallway to her bedroom feels a mile long. When we finally reach her door, I stop, uncertain for the first time in years.

I should say goodnight. Walk away. She’s still recovering, still adjusting to the idea of carrying my child. Still processing her family’s betrayal. The last thing she needs is me, complicating things further with desire she might not welcome.

But she pauses, too, turning to face me. The air around us changes, growing thick and charged.

“Thank you again for tonight,” she whispers. “It meant more than you know.”

But then her eyes lift to mine—and they’re saying something else entirely. I could blame what happens next on hormones, on heightened emotions. But the truth is that I don’t need a reason when it’s all I’ve been thinking about.

She rises slightly on her toes, hand coming up to rest against my chest, and that’s when all thought leaves the building. I look into her eyes, the prettiest green I’ve ever seen, until I’m swimming in that color, until I feel her press her lips to mine and lose all sight.

The kiss is gentle, almost tentative.

A question.

An invitation.

My control shatters like glass.

I crowd her against the doorframe, one hand sliding into her hair, the other at her waist, pulling her against me because she’s the only thing that can quench the fire in my nerves. She dissolves into a moan as my tongue slides against hers.

God, I’ve been starving and I didn’t even know.

Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in through my shirt as she arches into me. The feel of her body against mine—soft curves pressed to hard planes—sends fire racing through my veins.

“Let’s get inside,” I growl against her mouth, fumbling for the doorknob. “Now.”

We stumble through the doorway, neither willing to break the kiss. As soon as we’re inside, I kick the door shut and press her back against it, pinning her with my body.

Her hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my chest, tugging at my shirt. Mine aren’t much better, sliding down her sides, tracing the curve of her hip, cupping her ass to pull her harder against me.

“I want you,” she breathes against my mouth. “I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

“You’re telling me,” I ghost out an answer and kiss her deeper, harder, trying to pour every ounce of how I feel through touch alone.

“You have no idea,” I mutter, moving to her neck, dragging my teeth lightly over the sensitive skin. “The things I want to do to you.”

She shudders, head falling back against the door with a soft thud. “How about less talk and more walk?”

“Sassy, are we?” I grin.

My hands find the zipper of her dress, dragging it down slowly, pushing the straps off her shoulders, until the dress pools at her feet, leaving her hourglass figure standing like a shadow against the moonlight.

She stands before me in nothing but lace underwear, her body a masterpiece of curves and valleys. The gentle swell of her stomach, the baby it carries, makes my heart clench.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, reverent.

She’s not as shy this time, reaching for the buttons of my shirt with steady hands.

I let her undress me, savoring the brush of her fingers against my skin as she pushes my shirt from my shoulders. When her hands move to my belt, I have to close my eyes briefly, fighting for control.

“Slow down,” I warn her, catching her wrists. “Or this will be over too quickly.”

Her smile turns wicked. “Maybe I don’t want slow.”

I lean in, nipping at her lower lip. “But I do,” I murmur. “I want to take my time with you. Make you fall apart over and over.”