Page 70 of The Pucking Arrangement

I let my lips ghost over hers, tracing the shape of her mouth, learning the feel of her, teasing the inevitable.

A throaty whimper escapes her, the sound sending a lightning strike straight through my body.

Her hands fist in my hoodie, desperate, and she tilts her head, trying to chase my lips, trying to close the last of the distance.

“Please Dmitri. I need to know,” she whimpers.

But I keep it slow. Exquisite.

Because I saw the fear in her before.

Because I know she’s not just scared of me.

She’s scared of how badly she wants this.

So I make her feel it—every lingering second, every inch of space between us, until she’s ready and begging.

I skim my tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing her open, and fuck?—

I got her.

She collapses against me with a broken gasp, letting me deepen the kiss, letting me taste her, own her. She’s soft in my arms, her breath mixing with mine, and fuck, fuck, fuck, she tastes so sweet.

Just as I knew she would.

Her body arches into me, her chest pressing against mine, her thighs brushing my legs, and I need more.

My hand slides lower, trailing fire down her spine, tracing the waistband of her shorts, slipping beneath, feeling warm, bare skin?—

But she gasps.

Not in pleasure. But panic.

Her fingers tighten in my hoodie, her body tensing against mine, and I pull back.

She blinks up at me, lips swollen, breathless, something flickering in her eyes—uncertainty, maybe. A shadow of hesitation.

“Dmitri—”

I brush my knuckles over her cheek, steadying her. Steadying myself. “Don’t worry,solnyshko.” My thumb drags lightly over her lips, lingering. “We’ll do this on your terms.”

Her chest rises and falls, sharp and uneven. “I—I want you. Please?—”

I smirk, pressing a final, featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“No rush,” I murmur. “Not with you.”

Her pupils flare, a storm brewing in that green. Because we both know when I finally stop holding back, there won’t be any turning back.

She swallows hard, her breath shaky, unsteady.

Then grasping for control—for something, anything to ground herself—her voice comes, soft and fragile. “How was Vancouver?”

I exhale sharply. She needs a distraction. A second to breathe. To regroup.

Fine. I’ll give her that.

For now.

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