Page 13 of Hers to Command

I break the kiss, breathless, my forehead resting against hers as we both catch our breath. “Tell me I can seal this deal.” I fucking claimed her with my kiss and something in me needs her to submit. There is a primitive urge to have her acknowledge she needs more from me.

Anya’s chest rises and falls against mine, her breath shaky. But even now, she doesn’t give in easily. “Wecan,” she responds, her voice husky, “but it doesn’t mean I’m yours yet.”

“Yet?” I grin, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my voice low and rough. “But you will be.”

Because fuck it all. I’m going to make Anya Tsepov mine.

She smirks, that familiar defiance flickering back into her eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I laugh, the sound rumbling in my chest as I step back just enough to look at her. “Then let’s get out of here.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Where exactly do you plan on going?”

“My place.” It’s not a question. I know where this is heading, and so does she. The museum may have seemed like a great idea earlier, but now there’s only one place I want her.

She holds my gaze for a long moment, as if she’s considering something, then nods. “All right.”

I don’t waste any time. I take her hand and lead her toward the exit. The cool night air hits us as we step outside, and I flag down my driver, pulling Anya into the backseat beside me.

The ride is quiet, but the tension is anything but. I can feel the heat radiating off her, the way her leg brushes against mine, the way her hand rests just a little too close. Every second feels like an eternity, waiting to get her alone.

She’s taking a risk getting in the car with me, and I fucking like that.

When we finally reach my place, I pull Anya out of the car and up the steps to the entrance. The second the door closes behind us, we’re on each other again. Her hands are in my hair, tugging hard as my mouth crashes down on hers. I walk her backward until her back hits the wall, pinning her there as I kiss her harder, deeper. Her body arches against mine, and I groan at the feel of her curves pressed against me.

Anya

The moment the door clicks shut behind us, Riccardo’s mouth is on mine again. It’s not soft. There’s no easing into it. This is raw, unfiltered need, and I meet him with the same force. My hands grip his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to match his intensity. If I tug on his scalp with a bit of extra force to remind him I’m not one of his easy conquests, then so what? This is so much better than the fantasies I touched myself to.

My back hits the wall, and I gasp, but the sound is swallowed by his lips, his tongue, the taste of him. His weight presses against me, and the heat of his dick digs into my hip.

This isn’t part of the plan. I was supposed to meet him, negotiate, seal the deal, then walk away. It was supposed to be strategic. But now, with his hands gripping my waist, his lips tracing the line of my neck, everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control.

He challenged me anddamn him,it worked.

I should stop this. I should remind myself that I’m here for a marriage of convenience, for protection—not forthis.

But every inch of me craves him.

Every inch of me wants this.

Wants more.

Fuck him if he thinks he can buy my body by marrying me. I’ll fuck him when and how I want to. And I want him now. Before he’s ever signed any papers.

I push him back for a second, catching my breath, and his eyes are wild, dark with lust. He’s waiting, and finally that controlled smirk he always wears is gone. I reach for him, tugging him by the collar of his shirt back to me. His lips crash into mine, harder this time, and my body hums in response.

His hands roam my body, exploring, claiming. Every touch sends a shiver down my spine, making it harder to think. There’s no space left between us now—just heat and pressure and the overwhelming need to feel more.

My breath comes out in short, ragged gasps when his mouth moves lower, kissing a trail along my jaw, down my neck, sending sparks through my nerves. My mind goes fuzzy when his lips skim over my collar bones. It’s been too damn long since someone has done that and the last guy needed detailed instructions which killed the mood.

My fingers are clumsy as they fumble with the buttons of his shirt, my mind buzzing, unable to focus on anything other than the need building inside me.

“You’re not supposed to want this,” I murmur, half to him, half to myself, but the words sound weak, hollow. My logic feels distant, irrelevant. I’m barely holding onto the control I pride myself on.

His lips pause at my collarbone, his breath hot against my skin. “Neither are you,” he murmurs back, voice thick with amusement. He pulls away just enough to look at me, his eyes glinting with that cocky self-assurance I both despise and am inexplicably drawn to.

I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my throat when his hand moves lower, fingers tracing the curve of my hip, slipping under the fabric of my blouse. The touch is electric, and any argument I had dissolves into nothingness. My body betrays me, leaning into him, arching into the way he makes me feel.

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