Page 43 of Stolen Empire

I hate the heat pooling low in my belly, the way my thighs press together involuntarily.

I hate that this man—this violent, controlling man—can make me feel anything at all.

But I do feel it.

And he knows.

"Say yes, Katya."

His lips graze my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Say yes and I will make you forget every reason you came to Moscow in the first place. I will make you forget your own name."

My breath stutters.

His hand moves again, sliding around to the small of my back, pulling me closer.

The pressure of him against my thigh is unbearable now.

My body arches into him without permission, betraying me completely.

"You're beautiful," he says, his voice softer now, almost reverent.

"You are fierce and wild and I have wanted you since the moment I caught you in that stall trying to steal my horse."

His words sink into my chest, wrap around my ribs and squeeze.

I find my head arching back, my eyes fluttering shut as the sensations of arousal consume me.

My mouth is watering, my pussy probably dripping like fucking Kivach Falls.

"You don’t have to be afraid of me," he continues.

His hand moves up, fingers threading through my hair in a tight fist, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

"I will treasure you like the Hope Diamond, devour you like a feast for Novy Dod, and most importantly, worship your body like you are the Great Mother incarnate."

His breath is so hot against my skin, I'm melting.

I search his face, looking for the lie.

But there's nothing there except raw need and a darker desire under hooded eyelids.

His hips roll forward again and my knees almost buckle.

A sound escapes me—half gasp, half whimper—and his eyes flare.

"There it is," he whispers.

"There is the truth."

I can't think anymore.

I can't plan or scheme or calculate my odds.

All I can do is feel.

His hands on my body.