Page 25 of Twisted Pact
He growls against my lips, and the sound vibrates through me.
He crowds me with heat, muscle, and barely leashed restraint. I can feel every inch of him—every line, every breath—pressing me harder against the wall.
There’s no mistaking the thick, insistent length pressing against my hip. No mistaking how much he wants this.
And worse, how much I do, too.
“Mila,” he breathes against my lips.
“Shut up.”
I bite his lower lip hard. He groans, and his hand slides into my hair, fisting it to tilt my head where he wants it. His tongue claims mine in deep, demanding strokes that make my knees go weak.
This is insane. We should be fighting.
But somewhere between the anger and the accusations, the line between fury and desire disappears, and I can’t tell one from the other anymore.
He drags back just enough to look at me. His breath is rough against my mouth, matching mine beat for beat.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
“No.”
“Mila…”
“Either let me go,” I whisper, “or give me a reason to stay.”
Something feral flashes across his face. Then he lifts me effortlessly and carries me to the couch.
He sets me down with surprising gentleness, and then he’s over me, his weight pressing me into the cushions and pinning me in ways that make my hips arch instinctively.
“Is this what you want?” His mouth drags along my neck.
“Yes.”
“Even though I’m keeping you here against your will?”
“Fuck. Yes.”
He pulls back, staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe being trapped here with him has rewired whatever part of my brain used to know better.
But I don’t care.
I reach up, hook my hand behind his neck, and pull him back down to me. Our mouths crash together again as his hands roam my body, mapping every curve he’s already memorized.
When his palm closes over my breast through my shirt, I gasp into his mouth.
“You drive me insane,” he mutters against my throat. “You know that?”
“Good.”
He pushes my shirt up, his mouth tracing the path his hands leave behind. When he reaches the edge of my bra, he looks up at me with a silent question in his eyes.
I nod.
He tugs the fabric down and closes his mouth over my nipple. The shock of it rips a cry from my throat. I arch into him as his tongue teases the sensitive peak, his other hand palming my breast with just the right pressure.
“Alexei,” I gasp.
