Page 23 of Masked Seduction
“So how often do you do this?” she teases, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
I chuckle, backing her gently toward the bed. “Often enough to appreciate what’s in front of me,” I reply. Vague but true. She doesn’t recognize my voice and I don’t want her to. Not yet.
We kiss again, and this time, I let my hands explore. Her zipper is at the small of her back, and I take my time pulling it down, feeling the tremble in her shoulders as the fabric loosens around her.
The dress slips down her frame like water, pooling at her feet. Beneath it, she’s wearing a dark green lace bra and matching panties—elegant and just a little daring. My gaze slowly rakes over her, unapologetic. Pale skin, red hair falling in waves down her back, green eyes that flicker with both heat and hesitation.
She’s exquisite.
She bites her bottom lip. “You’re staring.”
I take a step closer, slide my hand to the back of her neck, and draw her against me. She gasps when her body presses against the full length of mine—against how hard I am for her.
“I’m doing more than staring,” I murmur into her ear. “I’m memorizing.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “What if I don’t measure up to your expectations?”
I growl softly, nipping at her jaw. “You’ve already ruined them,malyshka.” I grab her hand and press it to my clothed erection. “Does that feel like disappointment?”
Shit. I spoke Russian. Did she notice?
Her breath hitches. She shakes her head.
“Didn’t think so.”
I kiss her again, harder this time, hungrier, hoping she missed the slip. Her arms wrap around my neck, bolder now.
I feel the shift in her, the way her fingers curl into my shirt with purpose, not hesitation. After pushing my jacket off, she slides her hands to my chest, finds the buttons, and starts undoing them, one by one, her touch light and reverent.
I let her.
When the shirt falls open, her eyes drink me in—my chest, my stomach, the dark hair trailing down. The ink on my right pec draws her attention most. She reaches out, tracing the design with gentle fingers. It’s a black, intricately-drawn eagle. The ink is old, done in Russia when I was barely more than a boy.
“What does it mean?” she asks, voice husky, curious.
I glance down at her, eyes dark beneath the mask. “It means I’ll never forget where I came from,” I murmur. I lean in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “And that some things are earned in blood.”
She doesn't press. Smart girl.
Her hands move lower, sliding over my stomach, grazing the edge of my waistband. I watch her green eyes light up with lust, lips slightly parted, as she pushes the fabric down. My slacks hit the floor, followed by my boxer briefs. When her hand curls around my length, I let out a low, guttural sound.
Fuck.
She strokes me, tentative but hungry, and for one dizzying second I feel like a beast—untamed, aching to rut. But I rein itin. She’s not a quick fix. She’s not a blur I’ll forget by morning. I want to savor her. Every curve. Every sound. Every breath.
“Enough of that,” I growl, and before she can blink, I lift her into my arms.
She gasps, arms flying around my neck, laughter spilling from her lips. Her skin is flushed—rosy and warm, her pale complexion blooming with arousal. I want to mark every inch of her.
I carry her to the couch—sleek, dark velvet—and ease her down onto it. Her hair fans out like fire. I kneel beside her and reach behind, fingers slipping beneath the clasp of her bra. I unhook it quickly, easily.
She tenses for a second, then lets it fall.
Christ.
Her breasts spill free, full and pale as porcelain, the pink tips peaked. I lean in, taking one into my mouth and sucking gently. She gasps and arches into me. I move to the other, lavishing it with my tongue before pulling it between my teeth, just enough to make her moan.
“You’re perfect,” I say against her skin.
