Page 87 of The Pucking Arrangement

He growls—actually growls—and then his mouth is on my neck, finding a spot that makes me see stars. His teeth graze my pulse point, and I have to bite back a moan.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and fuck, his eyes are almost black. “You ruined me today. The dress. The shoes. The performance. The way you play like you’re making love to that cello. I bet you will play me like that too.”

His mouth is back on mine, and thinking becomes impossible. One of his hands tangles in my hair, destroying what’s left of my bun, while the other traces patterns on my hip that make me whimper.

He takes my hand, his fingers entwining with mine as he leads me up the stairs. Every step is a slow unraveling, a deliberate stripping away of resistance.

Of control.

I should be nervous. Should be thinking, second guessing.

But I’m not.

Not with his thumb tracing lazy circles against the back of my hand. Not with his breath still warm against my lips. Not with the taste of him lingering on my tongue and demanding more.

He opens the door to his room, and?—

God.

It’s exactly what I imagined.

Dark wood, clean lines. Masculine. Precise. Perfectly put together. And at the center of it is a bed. Large. Dominant. Uncompromising. Crisp white sheets stark against the heavy, sin-dark frame. A bed that speaks of power. A bed that promises destruction.

I swallow hard, my heart thundering, my pulse a violent staccato in my veins.

Dmitri watches me, eyes unreadable.

Then, slowly, he reaches up and unbuttons his shirt.

One.

Two.

Three.

His movements are slow. Precise. Like he’s savoring this moment. Like he’s drawing it out just to wreck me completely.

The fabric slides from his shoulders, revealing sculpted muscle, hard lines, and smooth golden skin stretched over strength.

I stare, my mouth parched. He steps closer, and I stop breathing. The heat of his body. The sheer size of him. The force of everything he’s been holding back.

His fingers brush my arm, then down, catching my wrist. He lifts my hand, pressing my palm flat against his chest.

“You wanted to know,” he murmurs.

The words—spoken so quietly, so intensely—send a shudder down my spine.

I flatten my palm against him, fingers spreading over the steady, powerful drum of his heart. He’s burning under my touch, all heat and tension, muscles coiled tight.

“You’re still trembling,” he says, almost to himself.

I don’t know if he means my hands or my breath or the way my body is slowly melting into his.

“I—I just?—”

Want you.

But before I can find words, Dmitri tilts my chin up, his thumb tracing the edge of my jaw with devastating gentleness.

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