Chapter 11 Eva
EVA
The kiss consumes me, Roman's mouth demanding and possessive against mine.
His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my sleek bun loose with deliberate force, and I gasp against his lips.
Blonde strands cascade around my shoulders, freed from their professional prison, and the sensation of his fingers threading through them makes my knees weak.
He tastes like coffee and something darker, dangerous—vodka, maybe, or just the essence of a man who's built an empire on blood and ruthless ambition.
I know I should stop this, should push him away, should remember every logical reason this is a catastrophic mistake.
But I don't. I can't. I've been fighting my attraction to Roman Sokolov since the moment I met him, and suddenly, all my resistance crumbles like ash.
His other hand grips my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the hard length of his arousal pressing against my stomach.
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my belly, making me ache in places I've been trying desperately to ignore.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams that I should be running.
"Eva," he growls against my mouth, my name rough with his accent, and the sound goes straight to my core. "Tell me to stop."
But I don't tell him to stop. Instead, I kiss him harder, my tongue sliding against his, tasting him, claiming him as much as he's claiming me.
His groan vibrates through my chest, and then his hands are everywhere—sliding down my back, cupping my ass through my dress, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of his massive desk.
Papers scatter to the floor. I don't care. Nothing matters except the feel of his body between my thighs, the way his hands grip my hips with bruising force, the heat of his mouth as it trails down my neck.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he mutters in Russian, his accent thicker now, his control slipping.
His fingers find the zipper at the back of my dress, and he pulls it down with agonizing slowness.
"I've wanted this since the moment you walked into my office.
Wanted to strip away this professional armor and see what's underneath. "
The dress pools at my waist, and Roman's blue eyes darken as they sweep over my body.
I'm wearing a simple black bra—nothing fancy, nothing designed to seduce—but the way he looks at me makes me feel like the most desirable woman alive.
His gaze lingers on my breasts, and I watch his jaw tighten with restraint.
"Take it off," I whisper, surprised by the command in my own voice.
His eyes snap to mine, something predatory flickering in their depths. He raises an eyebrow in question.
I answer by reaching behind me and unhooking the bra myself, letting it fall away. Roman's sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the office for a heartbeat, and then his hands are on me, cupping my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples with maddening precision.
"Perfect," he murmurs, lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth.
The sensation shoots through me like electricity, and I arch into him with a moan I can't suppress.
His tongue circles and teases while his hand works the other breast, and I'm drowning in sensation, in need, in the overwhelming reality of Roman Sokolov touching me like he owns me.
Maybe he does own me. The thought should terrify me, but right now, with his mouth on my skin and his hands mapping my body, I can't bring myself to care.
I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine, and Roman pulls back just long enough to shrug out of his jacket and yank his shirt over his head.
My breath catches at the sight of him. His broad shoulders and seriously defined chest. Abs that speak of disciplined strength.
And the tattoos. God, the tattoos. They cover his torso in intricate detail, cathedral domes, stars, symbols I don't fully understand but recognize as significant.
Prison ink. Bratva marks. Evidence of a life lived in violence and survival.
I should be afraid. Instead, I reach out and trace the edge of a cathedral dome over his heart, feeling his muscles tense beneath my touch.
"You're staring," he says, his voice rough.
"You're worth staring at."
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or pleasure at my honesty. Then his hands are pushing my dress up my thighs, bunching the fabric at my waist, and his fingers hook into my panties. He pauses, giving me one last chance to stop this insanity.
I lift my hips in answer.
Roman pulls the panties down my legs with deliberate slowness, his blue eyes never leaving mine. When I'm bare before him, vulnerable and exposed on his desk, he steps back slightly, his gaze raking over my body with an intensity that makes me shiver.
"Spread your legs," he commands, his voice dropping to that low register that does things to my body I can't control.
I obey, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. Roman's hands slide up my inner thighs, his touch firm and possessive, and when his fingers finally reach my center, I'm already wet and aching for him.
"Fuck, Eva," he groans, his fingers exploring, teasing, finding exactly where I need him. "You're so ready for me."
I can't form words, can only gasp as he works me with skilled precision, his thumb circling my clit while his fingers slide inside. The pleasure builds with devastating speed, and I grip the edge of the desk, my head falling back as I surrender to the sensation.
"Look at me," Roman demands, and I force my eyes open to meet his. "I want to watch you come apart."
His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers, push me over the edge.
The orgasm crashes through me with shocking intensity, and I cry out, my body convulsing around his hand.
Roman watches every second, his expression fierce with satisfaction, and when the waves finally subside, I'm trembling and breathless.
But he's not done with me.
Roman unbuckles his belt with quick, efficient movements, and I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he frees himself. He's impressive. Thick, and hard, and ready, and a fresh wave of desire floods through me despite the orgasm still humming in my veins.
He positions himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and pauses. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "I want you."
Roman enters me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely, and we both groan at the sensation. He's big, stretching me, and for a moment I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel the overwhelming fullness of him inside me.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his forehead dropping to mine, his breath ragged. "You feel incredible."
Then he starts to move, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
His thrusts are deep and controlled at first, each one deliberate, claiming, but as my body adjusts and I start meeting him thrust for thrust, his control begins to slip.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I love it, love the evidence that I'm affecting him as much as he's affecting me.
"Harder," I gasp, and Roman's eyes flash with something dark and possessive.
"You want it harder?" His accent is thick now, his voice rough. "I'll give you harder."
He pulls almost completely out, then slams back in with enough force to make me cry out.
The desk shakes beneath us, papers and pens clattering to the floor, but neither of us cares.
Roman sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving deeper, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, taking everything he's giving me.
The pleasure builds again, faster this time, coiling tight in my core. Roman's hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, and the dual sensation of him inside me and his fingers working me pushes me toward another edge.
"Come for me again," he commands, his voice strained.
His words, his touch, the relentless rhythm of his body—it's too much.
I shatter around him, my inner walls clenching, and Roman groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as my orgasm triggers his own.
He buries himself deep one final time, and I feel him pulse inside me, his body shuddering with release.
We stay frozen like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, our bodies still joined. Roman's forehead rests against mine, his hands gentling on my hips, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.
Slowly, reality begins to seep back in. The office. The desk. The scattered papers. The fact that I just had sex with my boss. My dangerous, possibly criminal boss. In his office.
Roman pulls back slightly, his blue eyes searching my face, and I see my own shock reflected in his expression. What the hell did we just do?