31. Taylor
TAYLOR
Mikhail looks at me like he could eat me alive.
I know the danger of having a man like Mikhail inside my apartment, standing between my knees with his shirt half-open and his belt undone, and somehow, I have stopped caring completely. He’s right. I want him. I’m his.
He can stalk me and gather intel on me. He can kill a man and stand there with his blood on him like it means nothing. He can even tie me up and hold me prisoner in his home. I still want to be his.
Mikhail reaches the bed and lowers me onto it carefully. That’s what I want. I want the tenderness of the way his hand slips behind my head and waist to brace me. I want to be precious to him even if nothing else is.
The mattress dips as he leans over me. His hand settles beside my head. For one long moment, he does nothing. His eyes move over my face.
“What?” I whisper.
“You can change your mind,” he says.
“You carried me in here.”
“I can carry you back.”
“To the kitchen table?”
“If that is what you would prefer.”
I shove his shoulder. He catches my wrist, but only for a second. His thumb slides over my pulse before he releases me.
“I’m not changing my mind,” I say.
“You are scared.”
“I can be scared and still want you.”
Something changes in his face. It’s small. A tightening around his mouth. A darkness settling behind his eyes. He understands that better than anyone.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt. This time, he lets me. My fingers are clumsy. He watches me struggle through the first two before taking over, opening the rest with quick, impatient movements. His shirt falls to the floor.
I have seen parts of him before. His throat. His chest through an open collar. His forearms when he rolls up his sleeves at work. None of it prepared me for all of him.
He is broad and solid, his body marked by old scars I do not ask about. A pale line crosses his ribs. Another disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers.
I run my fingertips over the first one. His stomach tightens. “Does it hurt?” I ask.
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“Later,” he dismisses. Promises.
He reaches behind me and unfastens my bra. I lift enough for him to pull it away. The way he looks at me makes me want to cover myself. I begin to.
He catches my hand. “No.”
My face burns. “Mikhail.”
“You do not hide from me now.” His hand moves over my waist, then higher. He cups my breast, his thumb brushing slowly over the nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. I inhale sharply. He does it again. “You like that.” It is not a question.
His fingers close more firmly. I arch before I can stop myself. He lowers his mouth to my nipple, and the first pull of his lips unfurls a groan from deep inside my pelvis. He takes his time, switching between teasing strokes of his tongue and sharp little tugs that make me squirm beneath him.
I thread my fingers through his hair and rake my nails down his back. He groans against my skin. So Mikhail likes pain. I should have known. I scratch him again to be certain. His head lifts. “That was deliberate.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I did not know we were playing rough.” He catches both my wrists and pins them over my head with one hand.
He kisses me hard. Demanding. His free hand moves between my legs, stroking through my wetness.
Some is new, and some is leftover from his tongue.
I moan into his mouth. He pushes one finger inside me, then another, working slowly until the stretch eases and pleasure begins to gather again.
I move against his hand. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.”
The words make something inside me clench. He feels that too.
His mouth curves against mine. “I think you enjoy being told what to do.”
“I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”
He curls his fingers. My answer dissolves into a gasp. He continues until my thighs shake and my grip on his shoulders becomes painful. Then he stops.
I stare at him in disbelief. “You are evil.”
“I only wanted you ready.”
He stands and removes the rest of his clothes. My courage nearly disappears. He is beautiful, which seems unfair. Hard everywhere, powerful everywhere, and so much larger than the fingers that already made me feel impossibly full.
He sees my expression. “That is not encouraging.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That is usually dangerous.”
“I’m thinking there’s no way that fits.”
His mouth twitches. “It will.”
“That sounded disgustingly confident.”
“I have reason to be confident.”
I throw a pillow at him. “Don’t make me think of other women.”
He catches it without looking and drops it beside the bed. He puts his hands on the mattress and leans forward to kiss me. “I did not mean it like that. Just that—it will fit. You will feel full, but it will fit.”
Then he reaches into the pocket of his discarded coat and takes out a condom.
I blink. “You brought that?”
“I came here intending to seduce you.”
“You came here intending to blackmail me with a voicemail.”
“Not blackmail. You have nothing I want.”
“I don’t?” I spread my legs coyly, and he laughs, ripping open the condom.
He rolls the condom on and lies back on top of me. I feel my laughter die inside my throat, suddenly aware of how I look from this angle and how much softer I am than Mikhail, how muscular he is, how experienced he is, and how painfully obvious it will be that I have no idea what I’m doing.
He kisses my lips softly. “Look at me,” he says.
I do. I reach my hips up, and I expect to need to reach down and guide him inside me, but I don’t.
It really is like they say, the most natural thing in the world.
I feel the tip of him pressing against the entrance where his fingers just were, and my body pulses around the pressure, resisting him for one breath before slowly opening.
I gasp at the sensation, and he watches me, observes me, waiting for something to go awry, waiting for me to express pain or discomfort.
My hands claw at his back as he inches inside me further, the pressure making my body tense automatically.
He stops. “Breathe.”
I glare at him. “I am breathing.”
“Taylor.” He takes hold of my cheeks and kisses each of them.
“Breathe deep from your diaphragm. Try to push me away with your belly.” I do, and he nods.
“Good girl. You are safe with me,” he says quietly.
The words hurt after everything, but I nod anyway.
“Do you believe me?” I do. “Slovami,” he reminds me.
“I’m safe.”
“With me.”
I swallow. “With you.”
He pushes forward slowly. The stretch is immediate, sharp enough to pull a sound from my throat. I grip his arms. I don’t know how much more of him there is. It feels never-ending, the crawling of his length, the slick glide of the condom.
He moves another inch, then pauses, allowing the discomfort to fade before going farther. It is not graceful. It is not effortless. My body resists him, and there’s a burning pressure that makes my eyes water.
Mikhail notices everything. He kisses the corner of one eye. “You can hurt me,” he says.
“What?”
“Use your nails. Bite me. Curse me in English if it helps.”
“I curse you in English all the time.”
“Yes. It is one of your charms.”
I laugh weakly, and the movement makes him slip deeper. I feel his hips settle flush against mine, and I gasp.
He freezes. For several seconds, neither of us moves. Then the pressure changes. The pain is still there, but underneath it is something fuller. Stranger. A heat that spreads outward through my hips. “Mikhail.”
“I know.” He lowers his forehead to mine. I sigh in relief and moan as I take in the feeling of the still fullness. “Tell me when.”
I move experimentally beneath him. His breath leaves him in a harsh sound.
Power rushes through me. This man terrifies entire rooms. People rearrange their lives around his moods.
He has money, guards, secrets, and power, so much power.
And I move my hips once, and he looks like he is suffering. I do it again.
His hand closes around my thigh. “Careful.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I smile. For once, I am not the only one exposed. “Move,” I whisper.
His eyes close briefly. Then he does. Slowly at first. Each stroke goes deeper, stretching me until the discomfort blurs with pleasure. He watches my face the entire time, adjusting whenever I tense, giving me more when I pull him closer.
The rhythm builds between us. I stop thinking about how this should feel. I stop thinking about the fact that there will be a before and after this moment for the rest of my life.
There is only his weight over me, his hand beneath my neck, his mouth stealing every sound I make. He says my name like it belongs to him. Maybe it does.
Pleasure gathers again, slower and deeper than before. I cling to him as it rises, frightened by the intensity of it. “Mikhail.”
“I have you.”
The words push me over.
My body tightens around him, and he makes a broken sound watching me unravel, feeling me throb wildly.
I cover my mouth as I start to gasp uncontrollably, and he grabs my hand and pulls it away.
He frames my face with his hands and props up onto his elbows.
He moves inside me slowly, and my orgasm crashes into a few more as I feel his fingertips dig deeper into my skin.
He peppers my face with kisses and breathes my name against my neck. He thrusts deeper once, twice, and I feel a brand new sensation through the condom, his shaft warming, the veins raising and his cock pulsing inside me. He holds me tightly, and I know that the feeling is him coming after me.
For a little while, neither of us moves. Mikhail stays over me, but he shifts enough of his weight onto one arm that I can breathe easily. His other hand moves through my hair, smoothing it away from my face while he studies me again with that relentless attention.
“You are all right?” he asks.
I nod. His eyebrow lifts.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m okay.”
Only then does something in his shoulders loosen.
It feels like a miracle somehow, what I’ve done. I lie underneath him and consider it, where I am, who he is, that I’m not a virgin anymore, that Mikhail Korolev took my virginity, that he is heavy and warm above me now, his breathing slowing while he twirls my hair.
I have you, he said.
The words are awfully close to you are mine.
And yet different in every way that matters.