Page 40 of Beautifully Deranged

He laughs under his breath. “Not a bad idea, honestly.”

I gesture around, annoyed, overwhelmed, and burning from the inside. “You think dumping a million roses in my apartment is gonna fix anything?”

He lifts his hand to touch me, but stops just shy of my skin. The heat, though? It’s there. Fuck, it’s there. “I know flowers won’t fix what I broke, and I’m so fucking sorry,” he sighs. “I couldn’t stay away. I tried. God, I fucking tried. But you’re in my blood, Lola. I’m not some good guy, sweetheart. I never was. But you—you’re the only thing that makes me wanna crawl out of my rot.”

“You’re not forgiven,” I grumble.

He nods like he expected it, but kisses me on the forehead. It wrecks me. “I know,” he murmurs.

And then he drops. Kneels. Right there, in the middle of the rose-strewn chaos, on my goddamn floor. I stare down at him, frozen. He’s looking at me like I’m holy. Like I’m the cure and the curse.

“I fucked up. Lied. If I could rip out my own fucking heart and put it in your hands, I would.”

“Too late.”

His hands find my calves, dragging upward. My body betrays me, lighting up under his touch.

“Let me fix it,” he breathes. “Let me make you forget, just for a minute.”

“You think sex is an apology?” I snap.

He kisses the inside of my knee, slow and filthy. “I think you’re wound up. I think I can help with that.”

His mouth trails higher, another kiss, wetter this time. My brain short-circuits. “Please,” he whispers. “Let me taste you.”

I shake my head.

“You’re pretending this doesn’t mean something,” he murmurs, lips brushing my inner thigh now, hands spreading my legs. “Pretend all you want. I already know.”

I can’t think. Can’t move. I hate him. I want him.

His tongue flicks out, licking me over my shorts. “You’re gorgeous when you’re mad,” he says. “But right now, I want you relaxed. Dripping for me.” His hands dig into my hips. “Let me worship you. Let me remind you why your name’s the only one I’ll ever fucking need.”

And God help me, I let him. My knees nearly give out. He smirks against my skin, smug bastard. He knows he’s got me. “I’m not changing my mind,” I mutter. It comes out strained.

Mikhail lifts his head. His eyes are blown wide and dark. “I know,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I can’t make you feel good. Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

I cave. He starts pulling my shorts down, inch by inch, lips brushing the path like he’s blessing every exposed inch. He doesn’t rush. He’s savoring it. He licks, bites, soothes. Teases. Makes me jolt, then melts it away.

“You don’t get it,” he breathes. “This? This is peace for me. Right here. Between your thighs.”

He presses his face into me, breathes deep, and I swear I could scream. “I could die right now and not regret a thing.”

My hands end up in his hair without thinking. He groans when I tug. “You taste unreal,” he rasps, practically growling. “I should’ve been on my fucking knees a long time ago.”

I dig my nails into his scalp. “Shut up,” I whisper, even as my hips push closer to him.

“I’ll never shut up about you. Never stop needing you. I’ll keep crawling back. You could burn me alive and I’d still come begging.” His tongue circles my clit, presses, and flicks. One of his hands slides up, over my stomach, between my breasts, squeezing them.

“This isn’t enough,” he mutters against me, angry, almost wild. “I’ll spend the rest of my fucking life trying to make it up to you.”

And then he loses himself. “You’re gonna come for me,” he growls, looking up, eyes locked on mine. “And when you do, I want you to remember—no one, no fucking one, will ever touch you like this again.”

I break. Hard.

The orgasm hits like a freight train, and everything disappears for a good while. Just white-hot heat and that overwhelming, brutal kind of pleasure that makes you forget your own name.

When it’s over, I hate myself for letting it happen. He’s still on his knees, eyes on me, waiting. I push him away with my foot. My hands are already tugging my robe closed again, trying to pretend none of this ever happened.

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