Chapter 3
chapter
three
The door had barely shut before Luka had me pinned flat against it—one palm caging my temple, the other trapping my waist. He pressed his hips in, hard, his chest a barricade that left nowhere to breathe but into the sharp angle of his jaw.
The heat was instant. Total. And for one suspended moment, I thought he might devour me like this—upright, clothed, against my hotel room door.
He said nothing. Just watched, blue eyes electric. He tilted my chin up with two fingers, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, his expression unreadable except for a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. A dare. Or hunger on a short leash.
My knees would have buckled if he weren’t holding me up.
Then he grazed my earlobe with his lips, his breath scalding against my skin.
“Underwear.”
My pulse banged in my neck, and I pushed out a laugh that sounded like air escaping a balloon. “You’ll have to let me go if you want me to—”
The words collapsed as he pressed me harder into the door. He didn’t budge. Didn’t ease up. Instead, Luka lowered his mouth to my ear.
“I’d rather watch you struggle.” His voice was quiet and close, and the words shunted heat straight to the base of my spine.
I could have said no. God knows, I should have. Instead, I let the moment tip, and my body decided for me.
One-handed, I grabbed the hem of my skirt and bunched it up, then, with a gracelessness that should have killed the mood, wriggled the black microfiber down over my hips.
My skirt was hiked up to my hips, the panties halfway down, when I caught him watching, eyes hungry and predatory, but also—fuck—gentle. My hands shook as I shimmied the underwear over my knees and down to my ankles until they puddled at my feet.
I could still come to my senses and call this off.
But then he pressed his knee between my thighs.
“Good girl.”
The cold of his jeans, the solid press of his thigh, his words purring in my brain. My thoughts thinned to white noise.
He took my wrists in one palm and pinned them above my head. My heels skated on the slick tile as he levered me onto my toes with nothing but his body and that relentless knee.
I registered the click of the deadbolt beneath my shoulder blade. The clean mechanical sound cut through the haze, and I almost laughed at the drama of it all.
Then he kissed me.
No, not kissed. Consumed. He took my mouth like he’d been holding back for hours. A low sound—half growl, half something darker—broke from him, and whatever was left of my resistance burned away.
Luka tasted of vodka and cold air and a sweetness I hadn’t expected—like honey or plum.
He broke the kiss, his breath rough. “Sit on the bed,” he said, voice so low it vibrated through my sternum. “Now.”
I hesitated—partly habit, and partly to see what he’d do if I didn’t.
He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t muscle me. Just looked at me with those crystalline eyes and waited, unflinching, as if he had all night to see whether I’d obey.
I broke first. The moment I relented, he released his hold with a slow reversal, his eyes never leaving mine. I braced my palms behind me on the edge of the bed and shimmied backward, skirt bunched high on my thighs, panties somewhere in a black pool by the door.
He stood over me for a long, unsparing moment, the planes of his face divided in the lamplight—one half carved in ice, the other molten. Then he knelt, slowly, never breaking eye contact, until he was level with my knees.
“Spread your legs,” he said, the words even but edged.
I didn’t move. Every muscle locked, holding the line.
He shifted closer. I could see the pulse beating hard at his throat and the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“You do it, or I will.” His voice dropped, silk dragged over gravel. “And you won’t like it if I do.”
I let out a shaky breath and parted my knees—a polite inch at first, then wider, until chilled air prickled warm skin.
His gaze tracked down. The weight of it burned slow stripes up my thighs.
“Wider.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.
I obeyed before I could think, shifting my knees apart until I was indecently open. Cool air raced up the inner seam of my legs.
Luka didn’t touch me—not even a graze. He watched, head tilted, a satisfied smile ghosting across his lips. “Beautiful,” he said. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes,” I admitted, my knees still open in defiance of every Catholic school rule.
He thumbed the hem of my skirt, tracing the line of my thigh, then grinned.
“I like that you listen,” he said, voice deep as bedrock. He pulsed his hand once on my knee. The signal was unmistakable: wider.
My breath caught, but I obeyed. I felt the line of his approval, how it charged the air between us—denser, more dangerous, but also radiant with the kind of praise that made me want to peel open further, to show him everything until there was nothing left to hide.
“You’re not used to being told what to do, are you?”
I laughed, short and involuntary. “No,” I said, because he already knew. “Not really.”
His eyes glinted, bright and hungry. “Then I’ll enjoy this even more.” He curled his finger, beckoning. “Pull up your skirt. Show me how wet you are for me.”
The low burr of his accent cut straight through me, taking the last of my resistance with it. I dragged the skirt up, inch by inch, until it was a belt around my waist. My thighs trembled as I held the position—open, exposed.
Luka leaned in, close enough that his heat crowded my space.
He let the silence spool between us, thick with my breathing and the faint scent of wool and vodka.
Then, with a featherlight touch, he grazed his fingertip up the inside of my thigh.
I flinched—couldn’t help it—but he followed, unhurried, parting me with a single stroke.
I jerked, breath catching in my throat, but he didn’t pause. Didn’t even slow. Instead, he pinned my knees wide, one palm holding me splayed, the other slipping deeper to claim what I’d offered the moment I didn’t stop him.
“Don’t you dare pull away from me.”
I froze, his voice winding around my nerves.
He pressed me wider, exposed, and the throb of embarrassment landed in my gut like a punch.
Still, I didn’t move—even when the pad of his finger drew a slick, deliberate line through me.
I felt the wetness before he showed me. He lifted his hand to the lamplight, his fingertip glistening.
The sight should have ruined me, or at least made me want to hide, but it only set my insides spinning harder.
“So wet already,” he said, and the approval in his voice was almost cruel. I burned.
He didn’t wait. He plunged a finger inside—no warning, no easing back, as if my body belonged to him and him alone. I gasped, the sound small and unsteady. Luka watched my face for the exact moment I broke. When it came, he leaned closer, lips parted like he was drinking it in.
“And so fucking tight,” he growled, twisting his hand just enough to make me tremble. He worked his finger deeper, measured and possessive, then added a second—stretching, filling.
My hips jerked—protest or plea, I couldn’t tell—but he only clamped me harder, the span of his hand a shackle I never wanted to escape.
He pistoned his fingers, slow at first, until the sensation climbed my spine.
The whole room burned down to the slick sound of my arousal and the graze of his thumb circling my clit.
“Look at me.”
My head snapped up, vision black-edged.
“You want to come for me, don’t you?”
I shook my head, a useless denial, but the whimper that leaked out gave me away.
He withdrew, wet fingers glossy, then pressed them to my lips. “Open.”
I did. I let his fingers slide over my tongue, salt and musk and humiliation blooming in my mouth as I sucked them clean. He watched, his jaw tight.
Luka drew his hand back slowly, wiped it once along the inside of my thigh, then rose to his full height. I could feel the demand in the silence before he spoke.
“Strip.”
The word landed like a slap. I blinked up at him, my pulse stuttering as heat climbed my neck and flooded my face. I reached for the top button of my blouse, but my fingers slipped, clumsy and shaking.
His hand caught my chin.
I froze.
For a moment, his thumb moved lightly along the pulse beneath my ear as he watched my hands fail.
“Too slow.”
He tore the blouse open. Buttons snapped free, the sound cracking the quiet.
Before I could react, his hand closed at the base of my throat—enough to tip my head back, not enough to hurt. He locked his gaze with mine, steady and unblinking.
“Strip,” Luka said, his voice low and final. “Or I’ll shred the rest of those clothes off you.”
The threat sent a ripple through me. He released me, and I scrambled to obey. The ruined blouse, my skirt, bra, and heels hit the floor in a scatter.
I stood naked, crossing my arms instinctively over my chest. Through my lashes, I looked up at him, afraid of disappointing whatever sharp, dangerous expectation burned in his eyes.
He stepped closer, the heat of him erasing every inch of chill from my body. He dragged his knuckles down my collarbone, then over the curve of my breast. He nudged my arms aside. I let them fall. Nothing hidden from this man.
“Fucking beautiful,” he said, the syllables softer than I’d heard from him.
He circled behind me, and for a second, let me stand there—naked and unsteady.
Then he palmed my breasts, thumbs flicking my nipples until they stiffened under his touch.
With his other hand, he traced a line down to my navel.
The anticipation ached, and I leaned into it, breath shuddering as he slid his palm between my legs.
He didn’t tease—just spread me open and stroked my clit with a steady, deliberate pressure that made my vision spark at the edges.