Page 44 of Stolen Empire
His breath on my skin.
The heat between us feels dangerous enough to burn.
He leans in, his mouth hovering over mine.
Not quite a kiss yet.
He's still waiting for me.
I don't know what possesses me.
Maybe it's the week in the tack room that broke me.
Maybe it's the exhaustion, the fear, the twisted relief of being clean and fed and safe for the first time in days.
Maybe it's the way he's looking at me now—not as a prisoner or a tool, but as a woman he actually wants.
Or maybe I'm just tired of running.
I close the distance.
My lips find his softly, tentatively testing the contact to see if the spark is there, and holy fuck, is it there.
He goes still for half a heartbeat.
Then his hand fists in my hair and he kisses me back—nothing at all like the gentle brush I gave him.
He devours me, parting my lips aggressively, searching my mouth while his body pins me to the wall.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are blazing.
"Is that your way of saying yes?" His voice is barely controlled.
I can't speak.
My heart is pounding too hard, my thoughts scattered. So I nod.
He doesn’t move for a heartbeat, just holding my hair tight, his eyes locked on mine.
“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
Something in his expression breaks.
His mouth crashes down on mine again, harder this time, while his hands drag the shirt up over my head and toss it aside.
Cold air hits my bare skin and I shiver.
He cups my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard peaks, then bends to take one into his mouth.
A gruff sound escapes me, half-moan, half-plea.
My fingers clutch his shoulders, digging into muscle as he sucks and bites.
Heat pools in my belly and spreads outward until I’m shaking with it.
He mutters something filthy in Russian against my skin and slides a hand down between my thighs, under the elastic of his boxers that are too loose on my hips.
