Chapter 12
Twelve
Cora
The click of the latch is soft within the confinements of the stone room.
There are times in life when you literally have to take it by the balls and give it a little squeeze. This is that time.
Steam caresses over my face and the world outside this room fades to background noise.
The sight of Rowan's fully aroused, naked body anchors me to this moment.
I visually caress every cut line, and deep groove shamelessly.
Water runs down his jaw, over the ropes of muscle in his neck, across the Bratva ink that disappears beneath the surface of the spray.
His hand hasn't stopped moving. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven pulls like a man caught in a private act who doesn't care enough to pretend otherwise.
Despite the warmth from the steamy shower, the cool air from the overhead vents mixed with my arousal has my nipples pressing tight against the confines of my sweater.
Blue eyes meet mine through the steam.
"You shouldn't be in here, Cora."
If I were smart, I would heed the warning in his tone and the piercing burn of his unchanging eyes. But my brain isn't in control here.
"Not unless you're planning to do more than watch."
He's daring me. Silly man. I'm inexperienced, yes, but I've had fantasies and the one about seducing a bad boy is about to come true.
"Then it's a good thing I'm planning to do more than watch."
A dark smile curls the edges of his lips.
I step closer, the stone floor warm under my feet from the steam. The glass wall of the shower separates us and through it, behind him, Lake Michigan stretches black and infinite under a sky full of stars.
His eyes track my every step like the predator I know him to be.
"My darling Russian," I trace the edges of my fingers along the fringe of my sweater to the sound of a deep growl. With each movement, the hem lifts just enough for me to tease Rowan with the sight of my silk panties.
Black. His favorite color.
My gaze shifts from the hand stroking his cock to hold his gaze.
"I hear my name on your lips. It's only fair I come to see why, no?
" I ask tentatively. Feeling brave, I continue.
"You look like you're in terrible pain, my dear, beautiful Russian.
" And God, yes. This man is beautiful from the thick blond hair all the way down to the hardness of his gorgeous cock.
With my gaze lifted to his, I step up to the shower and lean in to place my hands on his chest. Knowing I'm testing the man's last hold he has over his control, I curl the tip of my tongue over the hard disk of his nipple, sucking off a droplet of water.
I lick the wetness off my lips and as I do so the man doesn't take his eyes off me.
I take one step back and then another. "Let me help." Millions of drops of water work together to sluice over deeply tanned skin. It's tempting to drag my lips over all that deliciousness until I have my lips wrapped around his shaft.
But I have other ideas and it seems he's catching on to the fact that I'm not going anywhere and this is happening.
He raises an eyebrow. "Cora," he warns but all I hear is him begging me to join him.
I pull the sweater over my head. The fabric catches on my damp skin, clings for a breath before it comes free and drops to the stone in a heap of thin knit. The cool air and the warm steam hit me at the same time and my skin breaks into goosebumps from my shoulders to my thighs.
His eyes drop and the second the heat of his gaze caresses over the peaks, a wave of warmth pools between my legs.
My fingers hook the waistband of the black lace. I slide the panties down my thighs, over my knees, letting them fall to the tile where the silk puddles at my feet.
"Get in here." The growl vibrates through the glass and into the soles of my feet.
He steps out of the shower toward me, water dripping off his body onto the stone. He doesn't stop until he's standing a breath from me, his aroused cock pressing hot against my stomach. The height difference between us cranes my neck to hold his gaze.
This man's hunger reverberates through the bathroom like a deep rumble of thunder, feeding into me. Every grunt, every low exhale strokes over my skin as if he already has his hands all over my body.
"I haven't done this before."
The words fall out quiet, direct. No dramatic confession, just the truth delivered while I stand naked in front of a man I trust with a gift no one else has earned.
Hunger darkens his eyes. The push and pull of his restraint plays across the hard lines of his face, his jaw working, the tendons in his neck shifting. I can see him raging against wanting me, against what he knows he shouldn't take.
"Then we go slow." The rough edge of his voice softens, wrapping tenderness around authority. The accent thickens on the vowels the way it does when English stops being enough.
He reaches for me. His hands find my hips, his palms so warm from the water and so wide that his fingertips nearly meet across the small of my back. The silver ring presses cold against my hip bone and the contrast makes me gasp.
"Your hands are shaking," I say.
He looks down at his scarred fingers spread across my wet skin, at the tremor running through them that has nothing to do with age or cold.
"Nyet." He meets my eyes. "They're not."
"They absolutely are."
The ghost-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Then you should stop looking."
I rise to my toes and kiss him. I kiss him first because this is mine, this choice, this moment, this man. I chose the father over the son, the man who earned it over the boy who demanded it. The taste of that choice lives in his mouth when he opens it against mine.
His groan reaches into me, stroking every nerve from throat to core.
His hands tighten on my hips and lift me off the tile.
My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me into the shower, the water pouring over both of us.
His body is massive against mine, solid and hot, every scar on his torso pressed against my stomach.
I can feel him, hard, thick against my inner thigh. The reality of his size compared to the anticipation sends a jolt through my belly that is equal parts want and oh holy shit.
His forehead drops against mine. Water runs between our faces, into the seam of our mouths. His breathing is ragged, his eyes so close I can see the pale blue fracturing as his pupils swallow the ice.
"Tell me to stop." The words fall against my lips. "Tell me and I stop."
"Do not stop."
"Cora."
"Rowan." I frame his face in my hands, the stubble biting my palms. "I'm here. I walked through the door. I took off my clothes. My legs are around your waist and I swear to God if you give me one more exit I'm going to take it just to come back in again to prove a point."
The sound catches in his throat, half breath, half a joy so unfamiliar he doesn't know how to let it out. His mouth finds the hinge of my jaw, the spot below my ear, the column of my neck where my pulse slams hard enough for both of us to count.
"Khorosho." He murmurs it against my throat, the warmth of his breath spreading over my skin. "Then I'll take care of you."
His mouth travels down my neck, across my collarbone, to the curve of my breast where water collects in the hollow.
His lips close over my nipple and the heat of his mouth against the warm spray pulls a sound from my throat that bounces off every stone surface in the room.
My fingers grip his shoulders, the ink moving under my hands as the muscles shift.
He takes his time, that devastating patience turned tender.
His mouth moves between my breasts while his hands hold me pinned against the wall, the stone cold and smooth against my back, his body a furnace along my front.
Every touch is deliberate. Every kiss lands in a place that makes me arch or gasp or dig my nails deeper into his skin.
His hand slides between us, his fingers finding me. The first touch sends my head back against the stone, my mouth open, water running over my face. He strokes slowly, reading my body with precision and patience. Rowan Volkov does not touch without understanding first.
"You're ready," he says, and it isn't a question.
"I've been ready since the terrace."
He shifts his grip, adjusting our position against the wall. The glass is to our left, the lake vast and dark beyond it, the pool light painting everything in blue. His forehead presses against mine, his hand cupping the back of my head, fingers threading into my wet hair.
"Look at me."
I lift my gaze to his. Water streams over the hard planes of his face, those ice-blue eyes gone nearly black, the silver at his temples darkened by the spray. Restraint trembles in every muscle pressed against me.
I reach between us and take him in hand.
His sharp intake of breath vibrates against my lips.
The size of him in my palm sends a fresh rush of heat flooding between my thighs.
I stroke him once from root to tip, the silky steel length of him hot in my fingers.
The sound he makes is low, animalistic, stripped of every layer of restraint he's maintained since the night he caught me mid-air in my hallway.
"Cora." My name on his lips is a warning wrapped in a prayer.
I guide him to my entrance. His forehead drops harder against mine, his breath ragged through clenched teeth.
He pushes into me. Slowly, so slowly that every fraction of an inch registers as its own event in my body. The stretch begins and it is overwhelming, the size of him filling me in a way that borders on too much. My gasp is sharp, my fingers curling into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
His hand tightens in my hair. He stops, waits, his breathing as ragged as mine, his forehead hot against my skin. He stays absolutely still while my body learns the size of him, adjusts to the fullness.
"Breathe, malyshka." His voice is barely sound. "I've got you."