Page 86 of Twisted Pact

I kiss my way across his chest, paying attention to the spots that make him groan. When I reach his collarbone, I bite gently and feel him buck beneath me.

“Fuck, Mila.”

“I like making you lose control.”

“You’re good at it.”

I continue my exploration with lips and tongue, mapping every scar and plane of muscle. He watches with dark eyes, his breathing getting more ragged with each kiss I press to his skin.

I sit back and grab the hem of my sweater before I pull it over my head and drop it on the floor beside his shirt. His eyes go dark as they rake over my body, taking in the purple bra I chose this morning without really thinking about it.

“Beautiful,” he breathes.

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with a flick of the wrist. The fabric falls away, and cool bunker air makes my nipples harden. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling the peaks until I gasp and arch into his touch.

“I love watching you respond to me,” he says.

“I love the way you touch me.”

It’s as close to a declaration as either of us is willing to make right now, but it feels significant, anyway. Like we’re acknowledging something that goes beyond physical attraction.

He leans forward and captures one nipple in his mouth. The wet heat makes me cry out and grind against the bulge in his pants. I can feel him throb beneath me, and the knowledge that I’m affecting him just as much makes me bolder.

I reach between us and work at his belt. The leather is soft and expensive, and it takes me longer than it should to get it undone because his mouth on my breast is making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

When I finally get his pants open, he lifts me just enough to push them down his hips, freeing his rock-hard cock. I wrap my hand around him and stroke, collecting the moisture that leaks from his tip to ease the glide.

“Christ, your hands feel incredible.”

I increase my pace, watching his face as I work him with my hand. His jaw goes slack, his breathing becomes increasingly ragged, and he lets out a strangled moan when I twist my wrist on the upstroke.

“I need to be inside you,” he groans. “Now.”

“Yes.”

He stands, lifting me with him, and turns to set me on the edge of the kitchen table. The wood is cool against my thighs as he works my pants and underwear off in one smooth motion.

“Lie back,” he orders.

I do, and the surface is hard against my spine. But when Alexei moves between my legs and looks down at me like I’m a feast, discomfort becomes irrelevant.

“I want to taste you first.”

“No. I want you inside me. Now.”

“Mila—”

“Please. I need to feel connected to you. After everything that’s happened, I need this.”

Understanding moves across his face. This isn’t just about physical release. It’s about intimacy. About choosing each other despite all the reasons we probably shouldn’t.

He positions himself at my entrance and pushes forward slowly. The stretch is perfect, and I moan as he fills me. When he’s seated all the way inside, we both go still for a moment. Just breathing. Just feeling.

And then he starts moving in long, slow strokes that allow me to feel every inch of him. The table rocks slightly with our rhythm, and I brace my hands against the edge to keep from sliding off.