Page 14 of Brutal Union
She wants my head. That hasn’t changed. I am the reason her father still breathes, the reason a monster walks free. And I know exactly what kind of evil he is—because I’ve bled under his orders.
But here I am. Not running. Not warning her off. Just staring at her like she’s the storm meant to drown me.
Because what kind of fool runs from something this fucking beautiful?
“It means in Japan when you want to kill someone you lure them outside, and do it in private, unless you are trying to start a fight with the whole room.”
Before she can step away, I tilt my head and press a slow kiss to the top of it—right where vein meets bone, just soft enough to steal her breath.
I want to bury my teeth into that skin and leave proof. Not because I need to mark her. But because she’s the only person alive I want to belong to, despite the fact that she is the last person I can belong to. A part of me thinks when this is all over, and I have my vengeance that I will hand myself over to her. Tell her to do her fucking worst and revel in the way she will destroy me.
“I wouldn’t mind fighting the whole room.” She watches me with those glacier eyes, and speaks cooly. “Sounds fun.”
“I bet it does, but isn’t it rude to start a fight with everyone just to get one person’s attention?” I ask, brushing my thumb along her ankle.
Her eyes narrow like a blade being drawn as she pulls her foot from my grip. “And whose attention did I want?”
I chuckle, just as she turns her back to me. “Who did you fly all the way to Japan to see?”
I can hear the scoff leaving her lips just as she lowers herself onto my lap, her back to my chest, the curve of her spine sliding flush against me like we were made for this kind of quiet violence. Her ass settles perfectly, hips cradled in the V of mythighs, and my hands instinctively move to her waist, tightening around her like a vice.
“Zip me down?”
Fuck, she fits. Every inch of her against me feels like a war I’m begging to lose. I want to own her. Break her. Then let her break me. I promise I am a better man than this. I am more disciplined. I am more controlled than this. But Nadia Petrov brings out the animal in me.
“You are getting real comfortable for someone who is supposed to be receiving a punishment.” I counter.
She simply leans back, tilting her head just enough for her perfume to hit me like a drug. Smoke, spice, and danger. A fucking cocktail I’d drink until it killed me.
“You should be comfortable with all boundaries BDSM 101,” she says, one hand drifting lazily up the center of my thigh.
I laugh softly, breathe fanning the back of her neck. “BDSM 102 - safe word.”
“Love.”
I clear my throat, dragging my palm down the smooth line of her spine, each knuckle grazing skin like a match waiting to spark. I pause at the dip of her back, then go back up and hook a finger under the zipper and pull—slowly, deliberately—until the soft whisper of fabric gives way to skin. The exposed curve of her back gleams under the low light, and I fight the growl that coils in my throat.
“Love,” I murmur, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Seems like the wrong word for this.”
“And why’s that?” she breathes, not moving.
I slide my hand up, curling possessively around her throat, guiding her body flush against mine. Her ass presses into my hips like a challenge. I lower my mouth to her shoulder, teeth grazing the skin just above the blade of her tattoo.
“When my cock is buried so deep you forget where you end and I begin, all you would be able to say is,” I rasp, “I love this. Give me more. Please Sho.”
“Presumptuous,” she whispers, but her voice cracks like it’s barely holding.
“I don’t think it is,” I breathe against her skin, and her breath stutters.
My hand slides inside her dress—slow, sure, claiming. I curve my palm around her left breast, fingers teasing the soft swell, the pad of my thumb brushing across her hardened nipple. Her body trembles beneath my touch, but she doesn’t pull away.
My mouth hovers by her ear, breath hot, my voice turns to gravel. “See, Hime…I think love is the wrong word for this. Try again.”
“Red,” she whispers.
“Green for go. Yellow for slow down?” I confirm, rolling over her hardened nipple between two fingers.
“Yes,” she breathes, the word torn from her like a confession. “Limits?”
