Page 78 of Fierce Pursuit

A single drop of water started on his shoulder and slid down his body.

I watched it fall, irrationally desperate to chase it with my tongue.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I should be mad. I should be scared.

But all I felt was an unbearable, deep-in-my-belly twisting.

Because my body didn’t care about logic.

Didn’t care about should or shouldn’t.

It only cared about him.

And that was dangerous.

That was so fucking dangerous.

A stupid, reckless part of me wanted to test him.

To push him further.

Would he really follow through? Would he spank me again? Would it send me spiraling into another life-altering, toe-curling orgasm?

Was it worth it?

I barely had time to consider the answer before his voice cut through the steam. “Time’s up.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before he tossed the soap in the soap dish and reached for my sweater, tearing the cheap yarn down the center. A gasp ripped from my throat. My hands flew to the soaked fabric, fingers clutching at the remnants in a feeble attempt to keep myself covered.

I fought him. I tried to hold onto the pieces, tried to shove him away, but he was relentless.

Layer by layer, he stripped me bare.

“The more you fight me,” he murmured against my ear, his voice a velvet-wrapped threat, “the more fun I have.”

The ruined remains of my sweater and bra landed somewhere across the bathroom. My pulse pounded as his hands went for the front of my jeans.

Tension crackled in the space between us.

I could push.

I could make this a battle neither of us would win.

Or…

“Fine,” I bit out, my voice rough with defiance.

I shoved a hand against his chest, forcing half a step of space between us.

His eyes gleamed. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face, sharp and victorious.

I hated how much I wanted to wipe it off him.

Gritting my teeth, I peeled my jeans down, letting the water finally wash away the dried mud.

Kostya grabbed the soap again and lathered up a washcloth.

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