Roman
For one moment, neither of us moves.
Katerina’s palm rests flat against my chest, small and warm through the open collar of my shirt. Her fingers curl slightly, as if she expects me to step away.
I should. I really should.
The plane hums around us. The washroom is too small. The aisle behind her is too quiet. A flight attendant could turn the corner. A passenger could wake. Katerina could wake from whatever reckless fever has taken hold of her and hate me for letting this happen.
So, I hold still.
I give her every chance to retreat.
She does not.
Instead, she pushes me.
It’s not much of a push. She’s far shorter than me, her hand spread over my chest, her body balanced too close to mine. She would not move me an inch unless I chose to be moved.
So I choose.
I step backward into the washroom.
Her eyes flare. Then she follows.
The door shuts behind her with a soft click that sounds louder than it probably is.
Now there’s only her and me in the narrow washroom, our bodies too close, her perfume trapped in the air with the heat of her skin.
Christ.
She’s smaller than me, but there is nothing fragile about her body.
Soft, yes. Lush in all the places a man loses sense over.
Full breasts beneath that thin sweater. A narrow waist I can almost span with my hands.
Hips made to grip. Thighs pressed together under her skirt like she knows exactly what I’m thinking and is waiting to see if I’m brutal enough to say it.
My cock hardens so fast it’s almost painful.
And pathetic, really.
I came in here to calm down. To stand alone in cold light and talk sense into my body like a civilized man. I had gripped the edge of the sink, splashed water on my neck, counted breaths, cursed myself for wanting a woman who stumbled into my night with drunk courage and wounded eyes.
Then she touched me.
One hand on my chest, and I’m hard again.
Worse than before.
Because now I know she wants it too.
I see it in her face. Her parted lips. Her flushed cheeks. The way her gaze drops to my mouth and then lower, to the bulge straining against my trousers. She sees what she has done to me, and the knowledge does not frighten her.
It feeds her.
“Katerina,” I say.
Her name comes out rough.
She tips her head back to look at me. “Yes?”
“Are you still drunk?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
I study her.
Her feet are not perfectly steady, but neither are mine, and I have not had vodka. The plane shifts faintly beneath us. Her hand braces against my chest for balance, but her eyes are clear.
Dark, hungry, furious with a lifetime of being careful.
“I know what I’m doing,” she says.
“No, you don’t.”
Her chin lifts. “Maybe not. But I know what I want.”
I could ask what that is, but I don’t need to.
It’s written all over her face.
She wants me badly enough to forget where we are. Badly enough to follow me here. Badly enough to stand in this tight, dangerous space and dare me to be the kind of man I have spent years becoming.
I want to see how far she will go.
It’s the wrong instinct.
It’s also the only honest one I have left.
“Say it,” I tell her.
Her lashes lower. For a second, she looks almost shy.
Then her hand slides down my chest, over my stomach, stopping just above my belt.
“I want you to kiss me again.”
That’s all. And that’s enough.
I catch her face in one hand and take her mouth.
She gasps, and I swallow it.
No hesitation this time. No testing. No polite lie of restraint. Her mouth opens under mine, hot and eager, and she rises onto her toes to meet me. I grip her waist with my other hand and pull her closer until every soft inch of her is pressed against me.
She moans.
My hand slides from her waist to her hip and tightens there. “Careful,” I murmur against her mouth.
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“Then stop needing it.”
She bites my lower lip, hard enough to make my control slip.
I turn her and press her back against the door. Her hands fist in my shirt as I kiss her deeper, harder, until her head tips back and her throat opens for me. I take that too, my mouth moving down her jaw, her pulse, the soft skin below her ear.
Her breath breaks. “Roman.”
I have heard my name spoken in fear. In respect. In hatred. In begging.
But never like this.
Like she’s surprised by how much she wants me.
My hand moves under her coat, pushing it open, finding the curve of her waist beneath the sweater. She’s warm. Soft. Responsive in a way that makes my head go thick. When my fingers spread over her ribs, she arches.
Her breasts lift against me.
My mouth goes dry.
I look down at her.
She’s breathing fast, lips swollen, eyes dark. The sweater clings to her curves. The line of her bra shows beneath the fabric, lace or silk, something delicate under all that stubborn pride.
“You’re making this very difficult,” I say.
Her answer is to take my hand and place it on her breast.
For a moment, the world goes silent. Then my hand closes.
She shudders.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Her eyes flutter. I feel her nipple harden beneath the layers, feel the tremble pass through her when my thumb drags over it. Once. Then again. Her body answers shamelessly, beautifully, and the sight of her trying not to make noise nearly destroys me.
I bend and kiss her through the sweater.
She grips my shoulders.
I push the fabric up, not slowly enough, not gently enough, and she helps me, lifting her arms in the cramped space, coat sliding off one shoulder. Her bra is pale lace, her breasts full and perfect above it, soft flesh spilling against delicate cups that were not made to survive a man like me.
My mouth covers her through the lace.
She whimpers.
I look up at her from there. “Quiet.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Her head falls back against the door as I pull the cup down and take her nipple into my mouth.
Her whole body jerks.
She tastes so fucking sweet.
I suck her deeper, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make her hand fly to my hair. She tugs hard, and the pain shoots straight to my cock.
I groan against her breast.
My mouth, my hand, my body crowding hers, the hard ridge of me pressed against her hip.
I want to lift her onto the sink. Tear her panties aside. Push inside her until she stops thinking about other men, other families, other betrayals. Until the only name in her head is mine.
Her breast is wet from my mouth, her nipple tight in the cool air. I adjust the lace over her because if I keep looking, I will forget why I stopped.
She blinks at me, dazed. “Did I do something wrong?”
The question hits colder than water.
“No.”
“Then why did you stop?”
Because I’m trying not to be the worst man you meet tonight.
Instead, I turn her gently by the hips until she faces the mirror.
She stares at our reflection.
Her hair is mussed. Her mouth is red, breasts rising and falling beneath disturbed lace and fabric.
I stand behind her, almost too large for the small room, shirt open at the throat, eyes dark, face harder than it should be.
My hands settle on her waist.
“Look at yourself,” I say.
She swallows.
I lower my mouth to her neck and kiss the place beneath her ear.
Her eyes close.
“No,” I say. “Open.”
They do.
In the mirror, her gaze meets mine.
I kiss her neck again, slower this time. Her head tips back against my chest. My hands move over her sides, up to the heavy curve of her breasts, then down to her hips. I do not rush. I let her see every touch.
She should see the cramped bathroom. The older man behind her. The flushed, reckless stranger in the mirror. She should remember that she’s not this woman, that she was not raised for this, that she can still walk out.
Instead, she presses her ass back against me.
My breath leaves through my teeth.
“Katerina.”
She does it again.
Slower this time.
Her hips grind against my cock, and the friction nearly pulls a curse out of me loud enough for the whole cabin.
I grip the sink on either side of her, caging her in without touching her.
“Do you understand what you’re doing?”
In the mirror, her cheeks burn.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure, kitten?”
Her hands come down over mine where I brace against the sink. Her fingers curl around my knuckles.
“I want this,” she whispers. “I want you.”
This is my last chance to stop. But I don’t take it.
I turn her back around and kiss her so hard her shoulders hit the wall. She melts into it, into me, into the kiss, her hands dragging down my chest, fumbling with my belt.
I catch her wrists.
Her eyes flash. “Roman.”
“Slowly.”
“No.”
The word is soft, but it’s the first truly disobedient thing she has said.
And God help me, I like it.
She pulls one hand free and presses her palm over my cock through my trousers.
My vision darkens at the edges.
She feels the size of me. The heat. The hard, heavy ache she has caused. Her lips part as if the reality of it shocks her.
Then she strokes me.
Once. Badly. Clumsily. Perfectly.
My hand slams against the wall beside her head.
“Don’t start something you cannot finish.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I’m tired of not finishing things.”
That does it.
I grab her hips and pull her against me, grinding myself into the cradle of her body.
She gasps, and I take her mouth again before the sound can travel.
My tongue slides against hers. Her hands are everywhere now, in my hair, on my shoulders, dragging at my shirt like she hates the fabric for existing.
The plane dips slightly.
She stumbles.
I catch her, turn us, and pin her carefully between my body and the counter. She laughs breathlessly into my mouth, and the sound is so unexpected, so alive, that something inside me twists.
Not tenderness, though. I don’t do tenderness. But something close enough to be dangerous.
I slide one hand down her thigh, beneath the hem of her skirt. Her breath stops, and I pause.
Her hand closes around my wrist, not to stop me, but to guide me higher.
The blood pounds in my ears.
Her skin is warm and soft beneath my palm. I move slowly, giving her time, my fingers tracing the inside of her thigh until I feel the tremor there.
She’s shaking.