Page 14 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“It’s a mistake.” I opened the door wider, not to invite her in but to show her the full picture of what she was dealing with. The knife in my hand, the gun visible in its shoulder holster, the controlled violence that lived just under my skin. “You have no idea what you’re walking into. I’m not safe tonight, Anya. I can’t stop myself.”
She should have run then. Should have seen the warning for what it was and gotten as far away from me as possible. Instead, she lifted her chin in that gesture of defiance I remembered too well and said, “Then don’t stop.”
The words hit me like lightning, electric and devastating and completely impossible to ignore. In three steps, I was across the threshold, slamming my hand against the wall beside her head and trapping her between my body and the cold concrete of the hallway.
“Every time you’re near me, I lose control,” I said, my voice rough with want and warning in equal measure. “Every fucking time.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t try to escape. Didn’t push me away or demand that I step back and remember why this was impossible. Instead, she looked up at me with those eyes that held secrets and said, “Then lose it.”
Something inside me snapped.
My hands found her face, fingers tangling in her hair as I pulled her mouth to mine and kissed her like I was drowning and she was air. It was nothing like the careful, controlled kiss we’d shared five years ago—this was raw and desperate and consuming, fueled by grief and want and twenty-seven years of believing I was alone in the world.
She tasted like mint and danger and everything I’d ever wanted but been too afraid to take. Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I could feel her heartbeat racing against my chest like a trapped bird.
When I pulled back, we were both breathing hard, both staring at each other like we were seeing something impossible made real.
“I told you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “our first time wouldn’t be against a wall.”
She nodded, understanding passing between us without the need for more words. I took her hand and led her through the dark hallway to my bedroom, each step feeling like crossing into forbidden territory.
The room was as stark as the rest of the apartment—black sheets, minimal furniture, nothing personal enough to reveal the man who lived behind the carefully constructed image. But tonight, it felt different, charged with possibility and the promise of something I’d never allowed myself to want.
My gloves came off—the ones that had become as much a part of me as my own skin. She didn’t recoil when she saw the scars—just traced them with fingertips that were gentle enough to break my heart.’
“They don’t hurt anymore,” I said, catching her hand in mine.
“These aren’t the scars that hurt,” she whispered, pressing her palm flat against my chest. “Are they?”
She was right. The physical marks were nothing compared to the damage that lived deeper, in the places where trust used to be before I learned that everyone you love disappears eventually.
We stumbled into the bedroom together, all tangled limbs and desperate hands and the kind of hunger that came from years of denying what we both wanted. The door barely closed behind us before she was pulling at my shirt, fingers fumbling with buttons until she gave up and just yanked it over my head. I heard something tear, but neither of us cared.
“We shouldn’t—” I started, but she bit down on my earlobe and whatever protest I’d been forming died in my throat.
“Don’t you dare,” she warned, pulling back to look at me. “Don’t you dare tell me we shouldn’t. Not now.”
I tried to be gentle, tried to remember that she deserved better than the rough edges of my grief, but she wouldn’t let me hold back. When I hesitated, her hands framed my face, and she looked at me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
“I’m not made of glass,” she said against my mouth, and the words destroyed the last of my restraint.
I kissed her like I was drowning and she was air—deep and consuming and absolutely necessary. She tasted like wine and want, and when she bit my lower lip hard enough to sting, I groaned into her mouth.
“Fuck,” I muttered, my hands finding the zipper of her dress. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”
“Yeah? Tell me.” She watched me drag the zipper down slowly, the fabric pooling at her feet. “Tell me what you thought about.”
She stood before me in black lace that left almost nothing to the imagination, and I had to close my eyes for a moment because the sight of her was almost too much—the curve of her breasts straining against the delicate fabric, her nipples already hard and visible through the lace, the shadow between her thighs that made my cock throb painfully against my zipper.
“Open your eyes,” she commanded softly. “Look at me.”
When I did, she was watching me with something raw and vulnerable in her expression, but also hungry—so goddamn hungry it made me ache.
“Don’t look away,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”
“Never,” I promised, my voice rough. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”
“Show me.” She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, letting it fall. “Show me what you’ve been thinking about.”
