Page 50 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“Yulia,” I say again, lower this time. Rougher. Like her name’s been burning in my throat all night.
She takes a step closer. Barely a shift, but I feel it. The air changes. Tightens. Her perfume hits me again—jasmine and something warmer, darker. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up. Her lips part like she might say something, but instead she just breathes—
“Trifon,” she whispers.
That’s all it takes.
I reach for her, hands sliding into her hair, and crush my mouth against hers. God, her lips are soft and warm. Her body molds against mine like cotton, and for a brief moment, I forget who I fucking am.
The kiss hits like a match to gasoline.
Her hands fist in my jacket. She presses into me like she’s starved for contact, like she’s been waiting just as long, denying herself the same way I have. She tastes like champagne, and I want to drink her in until she forgets anyone else ever touched her.
She moans softly into the kiss, and I deepen it without hesitation. My tongue sweeps against hers—claiming, coaxing, relentless. Her body melts into mine, and I drag her closer, one hand sliding down to her waist, anchoring her against me.
There’s nothing polite about this. Nothing careful.
This is weeks of tension, snapped in two.
And the second her hips shift—slow, searching, desperate—I know.
She wants this just as much as I do.
My hands pull her flush against me by her waist. Her arms slide around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. She lets out a soft, breathy moan that nearly brings me to my knees.
I back her against the wall, pinning her with my body. She’s soft in all the places I’m hard, yielding and demanding at the same time. My hand slides down her side, finding the slit in her dress, skin hot beneath my palm.
“Trifon,” she gasps against my mouth, and hearing my name like that—breathless, needy—sends a surge of raw desire through me.
I kiss down her jaw, her neck, finding that sensitive spot just below her ear that makes her shiver. “Tell me to stop,” I murmur against her skin. “If you want me to.”
“Don’t,” she breathes, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Don’t stop.”
I lift her—she weighs nothing in my arms—and carry her to the nearest couch in the living room. I could take her upstairs, but I can’t wait that long. Need her now. Need to show her.
I lay her down gently, taking a moment to just look at her—flushed, disheveled, those green eyes dark with desire. The emerald dress is rumpled, hitched up her thighs.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I tell her, because it’s true.
She reaches for me, impatient, and I let her pull me down for another kiss. This one is slower, deeper, my tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that mimics what I want to do to her body.
My hand trails up her thigh, finding the lace edge of her underwear. I trace along it, teasing, not quite touching where she wants me.
“Please,” she whispers against my mouth as she arches into me, like I’m setting her body on fire and she needs me to quench it.
I laugh softly, then slide my hand higher, cupping her through the thin fabric. She’s already wet.
Fuck me.
“I want to taste you,” I tell her, my voice rough with need. “Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods—a quick, eager movement that makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper.
I kiss down her body, taking my time. Her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above the neckline of herdress. I could take it off her, but there’s something erotic about taking this slow, about not pushing her all the way.
I settle between her thighs, hooking my fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging it down slowly. She lifts her hips to help, and then she’s bare to me—pink and glistening and perfect.
“Fucking beautiful,” I say again, my breath ghosting over her clit.
