39. Mikhail
MIKHAIL
“You have me,” she says.
It is fair. I have placed guards outside her door, bought her father’s restaurant, monitored her movements, and decided where she will sleep. I have made a prison out of every promise of safety.
“I want you to stay,” I tell her.
“Those are different things.”
“I am beginning to understand that.”
She brushes her over the thin fabric of my undershirt. “Take this off.”
I sit up. Her eyes follow my hands as I pull the shirt over my head slowly, giving her every opportunity to decide this is too much, too soon, another mistake made while fear and relief are still clouding us both.
She watches me expose my chest. The scrutiny unsettles me. Taylor has seen me naked. She has touched every part of me. Still, tonight I feel examined in a way I have not before. Not as a man she desires. As a man she may allow near her child.
I remove the shirt and set it aside. Her gaze drops. Heat stirs through me, immediate and unwelcome in its intensity. “You are still angry,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And you want me.”
“Yes.”
I consider that.
She gives me an impatient look. “I can do both.”
“I am aware.”
“Then stop looking like you’re trying to solve me.”
“I am trying not to make this worse.”
“Sex is usually your solution.”
“It has been effective,” I say, leaning over her.
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth curves and she leans back, her mouth opening and her tongue touching mine.
I move my mouth to her jaw. Her head tilts. I kiss the line of her throat, breathing in the scent of her skin. She smells the same as always, yet knowing she is carrying our child makes every part of her seem altered.
Sacred is not a word I use. It belongs to churches, icons, things men kneel before. My hand glides beneath the hem of her sleep shirt. I help her remove it, and then she lies beneath me in only her underwear, her skin warm against the sheets. “Stop staring at me like I’m an artifact.”
“I do not want to hurt you. You are carrying my heir.”
She groans. “Do not call the baby your heir while we’re having sex.”
“I was not aware there were rules.”
“There are now.”
“What else?” I lower my mouth to her breast. I take her nipple into my mouth.
She gasps. “Don’t treat me like I’m…” She closes her fingers in my hair. “Breakable.”
I draw slowly with my lips until her back arches. The reaction sends a pulse of satisfaction through me so sharp it is almost cruel. This, at least, I understand. Her pleasure.
I move to the other breast, cupping her carefully. She becomes more sensitive beneath my mouth, her breathing uneven, her thighs shifting restlessly. I kiss her. She kisses me back harder. “You’re still being careful,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“I am attempting not to ruin the progress I have made in the last ten minutes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She laughs softly, and the sound loosens something inside me. I touch her slowly, paying attention to every change in her breathing, every place she leans into me instead of away. She is more sensitive than before. I am certain of it.
“Mikhail.”
“Yes?”
“Touch me.”
I slide my hand down her stomach. At the edge of her underwear, I pause. “Here?”
She glares at me. “You know where.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be apologetic and appreciative I let you back in bed?”
“But you did. And now you have to say it.”
Her fingers tug sharply at my hair. I smile against her skin.
“Touch my pussy,” she says.
The words go through me like a blade. I hook my fingers beneath the fabric and draw it down her legs.
She opens for me without instruction. The sight nearly ruins what remains of my control.
I settle between her thighs and stroke her once, gently, gathering the wetness already waiting for me. She shudders.
“Still angry?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I stroke her again. Her hips rise. “Very convincing.”
“Shut up.”
I circle her clit slowly with my thumb. Her answer becomes a broken sound.
I watch her face as I touch her. Every flicker.
Every tightening of her mouth. Every breath she tries and fails to keep quiet.
I insert one finger. She contracts around me.
My body aches. I add another, moving carefully, preparing her despite the impatient way she pushes against my hand.
I curl my fingers inside her and bring my mouth to her ear. “You are not breakable,” I say. “But you are precious.”
She wraps her arms around my neck. The reaction is small, involuntary, and more intimate than anything else she has given me tonight. I kiss her. My hand continues between her legs until she is trembling, until her nails score my shoulders and her body begins to tighten.
Then I withdraw. She makes an outraged sound. “Mikhail.”
I stand and remove the rest of my clothes. Her gaze moves over me. I see desire there. Anger too. Good. I do not want forgiveness purchased by pleasure. I want her angry and honest and still choosing me.
She reaches for me before I can settle over her, wrapping her hand around my cock. My eyes close. Her touch is uncertain only for a moment. Then she strokes me deliberately, watching my face.
Before I understand her intention, she pushes herself upright and presses her mouth to the head of my cock.
“Taylor.”
She looks up at me. There is something almost challenging in her expression, as though she expects me to stop her. Instead, she opens her mouth and takes me farther. My hand closes around the edge of the mattress.
Her inexperience still shows in the hesitation of her movements, the way she experiments with pressure and watches me carefully for every reaction. Somehow that makes it worse. She is learning me deliberately.
Her tongue moves over me and my hips tense. “Blyad.” Fuck. Her eyes brighten immediately. Apparently she likes that answer. She does it again. I thread my fingers into her hair but make myself keep my hand loose. She is choosing this. I will not turn her choice into another thing I control.
Taylor takes me deeper, then pulls back with a small cough and an irritated expression. I almost laugh. “Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were going to.”
“I would never.”
She narrows her eyes and wraps her hand around the part of me she cannot comfortably take into her mouth. The combination wipes every trace of amusement from my face. Her mouth curves around me. Vindictive little thing.
She watches me as she moves, clearly pleased each time my breathing changes. When her tongue flicks beneath the head again, my hand tightens involuntarily in her hair.
She stops. I release her immediately. “Sorry.”
Taylor studies me for a second, then takes my wrist and deliberately puts my hand back against her head. The permission almost destroys me.
I curl my fingers gently into her hair while she continues, fighting the instinct to guide her, to thrust, to take. Eventually I cannot stand it anymore. “Come here.”
She releases me and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Bossy.”
“Yes.”
I pull her upward and kiss her before she can complain further. I position myself between her thighs. The first press of my cock against her makes her inhale sharply. The first stroke draws a moan from her throat. The second makes her grip my shoulder.
By the third, I can feel her anger transforming into lust beneath me. She bites my shoulder when I move deeper. Pain flashes. Pleasure follows. I groan against her neck.
“You like that,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
She bites me again. I lose the last clean edge of control. My hand slides beneath her knee, lifting her leg higher. I thrust into her with more force, watching her face for any sign that I have crossed the line.
Her eyes close.
“No,” I say. They open. “Look at me.”
She does. I want her to see exactly what she does to me. I want no mask between us. Her body tightens around mine.
“Mikhail.”
“I have you.”
She shudders as I lower my forehead to hers and move faster, holding her close enough that there is no space left between us.
Her nails rake my back. Her breath breaks against my mouth.
When she comes, she groans my name against my lips, turning it into a kiss.
I follow moments later, burying my face against her throat as pleasure strips me of every defense.
For a while, there is only warmth, breath, and the relief of being allowed near her again. Afterward, she lies against my chest beneath the blankets. My hand returns to her stomach almost unconsciously. She does not object.
The room is dark. I should let the quiet remain. Instead, I ask the question that has been waiting behind every other thought. “Are you afraid of what kind of father I will be?”
Taylor lifts her head. In the darkness, I can barely see her face. She takes a breath. “I’m afraid of you as a man,” she says. “The father part I haven’t decided yet.”
Once, I would have enjoyed those words. There was a time when her fear pleased something dark and possessive inside me. It proved that she understood my power. That she knew I could overwhelm her and chose to remain near me anyway.
Now I hear only the door closing. I hear her searching for flights. I feel her step backward when I stand.
My hand leaves her stomach. Taylor catches it before I can move away completely. I stare into the darkness above us.
“Go to sleep, Mikhail. I’m not going anywhere tonight,” she whispers.
Tonight.