Page 63 of Only for Him

It leaves me practically salivating for him.

“You can’t tell me that it doesn’t feel good to finally embrace this.” He lifts a hand slowly to give me every chance to flinch.

I don’t, and I fight the urge to close my eyes as I wait for his hand to wrap around my neck again.

But to my surprise, he reaches above that to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is impossibly light, and more intimate than anything I’ve felt for years. Yet the power behind it is absolute.

“I know you like it,” he says. “Because your bodylovesit.”

His fingers never leave my skin, and trail down the same path that his mouth had been not moments earlier.

“It wants more.” Electricity dances down my spine as those fingers feather the collar of my blouse and come to a rest at the top button. “You want more.”

My breath stills as his fingers slip under the button and his thumb pushes it through the loop, popping it free. “I can smell it on you, little viper. And it smells fuckingsweet.”

I want to say something to tell him to stop. Anything. But my protest dies in my throat. Inside my head, two voices are warring for control:

Don’t let him do this.

Ask for it!

Don’t bend to him.

Beg him for more!

Don’t give in.

Give him everything!

I should shove him away. I should run for the door.

But I want this so fucking bad that I can’t pretend I don’t.

“Why are you killing these people?” I ask, my voice tremoring as he pops another button free. “Is it the Starkov Bratva?”

He answers by popping the third button to reveal the top of my bra.

“Is it the Starkovs?” I continue asking.

He stops, and I almost beg him to keep going.

The back of his knuckles brushes against my skin, and the contact ignites every nerve in my body. His thumb hovers above the fourth and final button holding my blouse together. The final one that still gives me the illusion that I still have a shred of my dignity against him.

We stand like that for a moment—he in the middle of undressing me, and I in the middle of trying to figure out if I’m still a cop or just his plaything.

“Smart girl,” he finally says, and pops the final button free.

The fabric of my blouse slackens around me, and then he slips a finger under my right bra strap and starts to roll it from my shoulder.

I freeze, not out of fear or knowledge of howwrongthis is. But because I’m afraid that if I were to do anything, he’ll stop.

Because I don’t want him to stop. Not until he’s stripped me of all dignity. Not until he makes me admit thatthisis what I want.

Thatheis what I want.

“Not in here,” I say, ashamed to hear myself whimper. “Someone could?—”

“I don’t care.” His words are low as he rolls the strap away from my right shoulder and slips his fingers under the left. “Anyone who opens that door leaves in an ambulance. And you aren’t leaving until I feel how much you missed me.”