CHAPTER 4 #2
“No, Liam, please,” she whimpered, her hands coming up, not to push me away, but to cover her face, as if to hide from the inevitable.
I yanked the silk robe open, revealing the luscious curves beneath. Her nipples were already hard, straining against her skin. Her belly was flat, her hips flared, her thighs full. She was a goddess, a fucking temptress, and she was mine.
“Please? No, moya roza,” I growled, ripping off my shirt, the movement aggravating my bruised ribs. I didn’t care. The pain was a dull roar against the fire for her. “There is no ‘please.’ Not now. Not when you look at me like that.”
I tossed the shirt aside, then unzipped my jeans, shucking them off with brutal efficiency. I stood over her, hard and demanding, my eyes burning with a possessive fire.
She watched me, her hands slowly falling from her face, her eyes fixed on my erection. A shiver ran through her body, a mix of fear and that sickening, traitorous heat. I saw it. Felt it. The raw, undeniable pull that still existed between us, despite the blood, despite the murder.
I climbed onto the bed, pushing her back against the pillows, caging her body with mine. Her hands came up to my chest again, pushing weakly. “Liam, don’t. Not like this.”
“Like what, Rose?” I rasped, my lips brushing against hers, then tracing the curve of her jaw, down to her shoulder. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need. Because all I need, all I want, is you. Inside me. Screaming my name.”
I kissed her again, deeper, more forcefully, stealing any protest she might have made.
My hands tangled in her hair, pulling, demanding.
My body pressed down, heavy and insistent, letting her feel the full weight of my desperation.
I fumbled with the clasp of her bra, tearing it open, then moving to her underwear, peeling it down her legs with rough haste.
She was soft, warm, wet. Already responding to my touch, to the sheer force of my will. A guttural growl tore from my throat. I parted her legs with my knee, settling between them, finding her slick and ready.
“You’re fucking wet for me, aren’t you, Rose?” I whispered against her lips, the words harsh, possessive. “Even after everything. Even after what you saw. You still crave me. Still burn for me.”
She whimpered, tears still flowing freely, mixing with the sweat on our skin. “I hate you,” she sobbed, the words muffled by my mouth as I kissed her again, devouring her sorrow, her resistance.
“No, you don’t,” I countered, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, my gaze piercing, demanding. “You hate what you saw. You hate what I had to do. But you want me. You need me. Say it, Rose. Tell me you want me.”
She shook her head, but her hips arched, a small, involuntary movement, a plea, an undeniable truth. My control snapped. I pushed inside her, a single, powerful thrust that buried me deep.
A gasp tore from her throat, a mix of pain and pleasure. Her body constricted around me, tight and hot, pulling me deeper still. I groaned, burying my face in her neck, breathing in her scent, a heady mix of soap and musk and arousal.
“Me perdoa, moya roza,” I rasped against her skin, the Russian words raw, desperate. Forgive me, my rose. “I did it for you. For us. I couldn’t lose you. Couldn’t.”
I moved inside her, slowly at first, then faster, harder, each thrust an apology, a claim, a desperate plea for her to understand, to accept.
Her legs tightened around my waist, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her nails scratching my skin.
Her head thrashed on the pillows, her breath coming in ragged gasps, tears still streaming down her face.
“Liam,” she cried out, her voice ragged, broken, but her hips rising to meet my every thrust. “Oh god, Liam!”
The sounds of her pleasure, mingled with her pain, fueled me.
I fucked her with a desperate intensity, feeling her clench around me, feeling the tremors start to build in her body.
I gripped her hips, driving into her harder, faster, pushing her to the edge, needing her to shatter beneath me, to forget the blood, the death, the horror, and remember only this.
This raw, visceral connection that bound us together.
Her body convulsed, a ragged scream tearing from her throat as she came apart, shattering beneath me. I thrust one last time, deep and hard, spilling myself inside her, groaning her name like a prayer, a desperate promise.
I collapsed onto her, my body heavy, spent, my chest heaving. My arms wrapped around her, holding her tight, pressing her against me, refusing to let go. Her breath hitched, her body still trembling beneath mine.
The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with unspoken words. Her tears still flowed, wetting my shoulder. My heart hammered against hers, a frantic rhythm. I had forced her. Taken her. Made her come. And yet, the wound was still there. That deep, raw chasm of mágoa that refused to be bridged.
I lifted my head, my eyes searching hers. They were still swimming with tears, but also a raw confusion, a painful acceptance. She didn’t push me away. But she didn’t pull me closer, either. Her hands lay still on my back, not clinging, not caressing. Just there.
I kissed her forehead, then her lips, a soft, lingering touch, an attempt to convey the desperate, agonizing love I felt for her, even in the midst of this brutal mess. She didn’t respond. Just lay there, broken and beautiful, beneath me.
I rolled off her, pulling her close against my side, tucking her head under my chin. Her body felt small, fragile, in my arms. I knew this wasn’t a fix. Not even close. It was a desperate attempt to stitch a wound that was too deep, too jagged, to heal with a single touch.
She was silent. Her breathing slowly evening out, but I could feel the tension still thrumming beneath her skin. I had done what I needed to do. Reasserted my claim. Forced her to acknowledge the undeniable physical pull between us. But the emotional chasm remained.
I knew she needed time. Space. To process. But I couldn't give it to her. Not with Volkov still out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for any sign of weakness.
I squeezed her tighter, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Get some sleep, moya roza,” I murmured, my voice rough. “You’re safe here. I’m not going anywhere.”
But I was. Back to the command center. Back to the war.
Back to the empire that was bleeding. And the woman in my arms, broken and beautiful, was a constant, aching reminder of the cost. The taste of her tears, the tang of her desire, the sting of her pain – it was all on my tongue.
The wound was deep. And I had no fucking idea how to heal it.
But I would kill Volkov. And then, maybe, I could start trying to.