Page 176 of The Pucking Arrangement

Dmitri gives me a long, unimpressed look.

“Are you trying to protect her…or yourself?”

My mouth opens. But nothing comes out.

I sputter, heat crawling up my neck. “I— What— That’s— No, that’s not?—”

His smirk turns lethal.

“Thought so.” His grin is insufferable. “You’re scared to leave because you like it with us.”

“I do not.”

“You do too.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” He grins—lazy, wolfish, and devastating. “Speaking the truth?”

“You are so irritating.”

“And you,” he murmurs, sliding his hands lower, making coherent thought really fucking difficult, “are so full of shit.” His fingers press into my hips, his voice dipping low. “You can be a rock star cellist. Perform anywhere. Tour the world…” His breath skims my jaw. “And still come home to me. To us.”

My heart stutters. My stomach tightens.

“Dmitri…”

His forehead rests against mine, his next words a quiet, low rumble. “I just want you to come home to me,solnyshko.”

“You make it sound so simple,” I mutter, watching the way the muscles flex in his forearms as he braces himself over me.

“It is simple.” He presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “You play in Dubrovnik. Tour Europe. Do what you love.” His lips trail lower, brushing the curve of my throat. “Then you come home.”

“Just like that?” I manage.

He nods. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not that easy?—”

“It is that easy.” His grip tightens around my waist, undoing me. “You think too much.”

I huff. “Someone has to.”

“Not right now.”

And before I can argue, he moves, hauling me onto him, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His cock is there, waiting. He palms it and slides it easily into my opening, slick and ready for him.

“Dmitri!” I squeak, gripping his shoulders, but I revel in the feel of him. “You cannot just throw me around like some damn caveman!”

“Sure, I can.” He palms my ass and lands a sharp slap, making me yelp. “See?Very effective.”

“You absolute— Stop that!” But my hips do their own thing, swirling on the delicious feel of him filling me up.

Then he’s sitting, pushing his T-shirt—my borrowed armor—up over my head, baring me to the cool air, to his gaze, hot and heavy and devouring, thrusting into me, his hands guiding my hips the way he wants me. His hand finds my breast, his thumbs brushing over my nipple before he leans in, his mouth sealing around it, sucking.

My hips move faster, seeking friction, seeking him.

“Why would I stop?” His voice is rich with amusement, with triumph. “When you’re finally not overthinking?”

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