19. Sofia #2
“You didn’t come to lunch,” he says.
I look at the book. “Astute.”
“Or dinner.”
“Your powers grow.”
He steps into the room. “Are you ignoring me?”
“Yes.”
At least that surprises him for half a second.
“Efficient,” he murmurs.
“I believe in clarity.”
“What are you reading?”
“No idea.”
His gaze drops to the book. “It’s upside down.”
Damn it.
I close it calmly and set it on my lap. “French literature is very flexible.”
“Sofia.”
I stand. “Well, this has been emotionally enriching. Good night.”
I make it three steps toward the door before he catches my wrist.
Not hard. Never hard.
That’s becoming part of the problem. He knows exactly how to stop me without hurting me, which somehow makes me angrier than if he were cruel.
“Let go.”
“No.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You have been in several moods all day.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain lies.”
I turn on him. “Excuse me?”
His eyes hold mine. He knows.
Not everything, maybe. But something.
Damir Volodin doesn’t look at a person like that unless he has already begun taking them apart in his head.
My pulse picks up.
I smile. It’s not my nicest smile.
“Careful,” I say. “If you stare any harder, you might accidentally start seeing me like a person.”
He ignores my jab. His grip shifts, thumb moving over my wrist. “You have been avoiding me since breakfast.”
“You were not at breakfast.”
“You looked for me.”
I hate him.
“I looked for the coffee pot.”
“It was in front of you.”
“Maybe I was confused.”
“You are many things. Confused is rarely one of them.”
I decide to weaponize annoyance before it becomes something else. “Fine,” I say. “Would you like to know why I am avoiding you?”
“Yes.”
The directness throws me. I had expected more circling. More control. More of that maddening calm. Instead, he simply looks at me and waits.
My anger flickers. Dangerous.
I step closer, deliberately entering his space because distraction is a strategy, and I’m desperate enough to use whatever weapons I have. “Maybe I decided you are bad for my health.”
“I am.”
“Refreshing honesty.”
“You should still eat.”
“I love how your concern always sounds like an order.”
“It usually is.”
“Then perhaps I enjoy disobeying.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
I know how to distract him. Unfortunately, I also know how badly this particular distraction can backfire.
I lift my free hand and press one finger lightly to the center of his chest. “You can’t keep dragging me into rooms, giving me rules, and expecting me to behave.”
His eyes darken. “You have not behaved once since I met you.”
“Exactly. Adjust your expectations.”
His hand moves from my wrist to my waist, and my breath catches. Traitor.
“Sofia,” he says quietly.
My name in that voice is not fair. It moves over my skin before his hand does.
“I’m still angry with you,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m very angry.”
“Yes.”
“Unbelievably angry.”
His thumb strokes once through the fabric at my waist. “You are also trying to distract me.”
I lift my chin. “Maybe I just enjoy being wanted.”
His gaze turns hotter. More dangerous. “You are.”
The words land low in my body.
Instead of moving away, I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
It’s meant to be a tactic. That’s the lie I tell myself for the first three seconds. Then his hand tightens at my waist, his mouth opens over mine, and the tactic dissolves into heat so fast I almost forget my own name.
Damir kisses like he controls even surrender. One hand in my hair, one at my back, turning me until I’m against the wall before I realize we have moved. The book falls from my hand and hits the floor with a soft thud.
He lifts his head just enough to look at me. “Still angry?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Good.”
Then his mouth is on mine again. Harder.
I grab his jacket, pulling him closer because apparently anger has decided to travel through my hands. He presses into me, and I feel the hard length of him through his trousers. My body reacts instantly, thighs clenching, heat gathering so fast it’s humiliating.
He feels it.
I gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage of it, his tongue sliding against mine while his free hand catches my waist and pulls me against him.
I grab his jacket before I can pretend I don’t want to.
He’s warm through the fabric, solid and alive, and the moment his body presses into mine, all my anger turns molten.
He walks me backward until my spine meets the wall. The impact steals a breath from me. His mouth takes the next one.
I kiss him back too hard, too eagerly, biting at his lower lip because I need somewhere to put all the things I can’t say. He groans once, low in his throat, and the sound goes straight through me.
His hand slides into my hair. He grips it at the roots and tilts my head back, kissing down my throat, over the place he marked days ago. My whole body shivers.
“There,” he murmurs against my skin.
“What?”
“You do that every time.”
“I don’t.”
He scrapes his teeth lightly over the sensitive place, and I gasp. His mouth curves against my throat. “Liar.”
Before I can answer, he catches the front of my dress and pulls. Buttons scatter across the floor.
I inhale sharply. “Damir.”
“I will buy you another.”
“You keep saying that like dresses grow on trees.”
“In this house, they do.”
The words almost hurt. But then his hand slides inside the open front of the dress, and the thought vanishes under heat.
He cups my breast roughly, thumb dragging over my nipple through the thin lace of my bra.
My knees weaken. I hate how quickly he can do this to me, how easily my body forgets dignity as soon as his hands are on me.
“You like being angry at me,” he says, mouth near mine.
“No.”
His thumb circles my nipple again, harder this time. My breath breaks.
“No?” he asks.
“I like being right.”
“You like when I make you forget what you were saying.”
I open my mouth to deny it. He pushes the bra cup down and takes my nipple into his mouth, and the denial becomes a moan.
My head hits the wall, and my fingers dive into his hair. He sucks me hard, tongue circling the tight peak before his teeth graze lightly. Pleasure shoots straight down between my legs, sharp and hot, and I arch into his mouth without meaning to.
He releases my nipple with a wet sound, then takes the other breast out too, tugging the fabric down until both are bare.
I should feel exposed.
I do. I also feel feverish.
He looks at me for one second, eyes dark and hungry, and my breath stops.
Then he lowers his mouth again. He devours my tits like he has been starving for them.
His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, sucking, biting gently, soothing with his tongue.
My breasts bounce against his face when he lifts me suddenly, his hands gripping my ass and hauling me up against the wall.
My legs wrap around his hips automatically. His cock presses against me through his trousers, big and hard and perfectly positioned between my thighs.
I choke on a breath.
“Already?” he murmurs.
“Don’t sound pleased.”
“I am pleased.”
“I hate you.”
“You say that when you’re wet.”
My face burns. He shifts his hips, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against me, and I make a sound I would deny under oath.
His mouth returns to my breast, and he sucks one nipple deep while rubbing himself against me through layers of fabric. The friction is not enough. It’s too much. It’s both at once, and I tighten my legs around him, trying to get closer.
He notices immediately. “So impatient,” he says.
“I’m not.”
His hand slides under my skirt, up my thigh, and finds the damp heat between my legs. His fingers press against me through my underwear. I stop breathing.
Damir lifts his head, eyes locked on mine. “No?”
My answer is a pant.
The smug bastard smiles. Then he pulls my underwear aside and touches my clit. Directly. I jerk in his arms.
“Oh.” The sound leaves me soft and shocked, and his eyes darken like I have given him something.
He rubs my clit slowly, maddening circles that make sparks burst under my skin. My legs tighten around his waist. I’m pinned between him and the wall, completely held up by his body, his fingers between my thighs, his mouth close enough to swallow every sound I make.
“You are soaked,” he says.
I close my eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say things like that.”
His finger slides lower, through the wetness of me, then back to my clit. “Why?”
“Because you sound too satisfied.”
“I am.”
I should say something clever. I can’t.
His finger circles faster, and my hips move on their own, chasing the pressure. His mouth finds my breast again, and he sucks my nipple while rubbing my clit until my whole body goes loose and desperate in his arms.
“Damir,” I gasp.
“I know what you need, baby.”
He slides two fingers inside me. The words vanish. My head falls back against the wall, and a low moan spills out of me as he fills me with his fingers, curling them exactly where he knows I need it. My body clenches around him immediately, still sensitive from last night, still sore, still hungry.
He kisses me hard. When he brings his thumb back to my clit, it nearly makes me come then and there.
His fingers move inside me, deep and slow, while his thumb keeps circling.
I’m panting now, shamelessly, my breasts exposed, dress torn open, legs wrapped around him.
Every thrust of his fingers pushes me higher.
Every stroke against my clit makes my thighs tremble around his hips.
“You like this,” he says against my mouth.
“Yes,” I breathe, because I’m too far gone to lie.
His eyes flare. The admission changes him.
He pulls his fingers from me, and I nearly protest until I hear his belt.
My eyes drop. He frees his cock, and my stomach flips. I have already had him inside me. I know what he feels like. I know the stretch, the ache, the deep, overwhelming fullness. Still, seeing him like this makes my mouth go dry.
He is big. Thick and hard in his hand, the head already wet as he strokes himself once, twice, watching my face as if my reaction belongs to him too.
It probably does.