Page 56 of Blood Oath Christmas
"Are you sure?" he asks, his green eyes searching mine.
I nod, unable to find words. I need this. I need him.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer as I kiss him back with equal fervor. The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely masculine—floods my senses. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, and I open for him without hesitation, a soft moan escaping as he deepens the kiss.
"Ivy," he breathes against my mouth, my name a prayer on his lips.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him between my thighs. The hard length of him presses against me through our clothes, and I arch into the contact, desperate for more. My fingers work frantically at the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine.
His green eyes are dark with want, but there's concern there too—always so careful with me, even in his passion.
Instead of answering with words, I capture his mouth again, pouring all my need and confusion and desperate hunger into the kiss. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me as his control finally snaps.
His hands are everywhere—sliding up my thighs, pushing my sweater up and over my head, unhooking my bra with practiced ease. The cool air hits my heated skin, but then his mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, trailing fire down to my breasts.
"So beautiful," he murmurs against my skin, his accent thicker with arousal. His tongue circles one nipple before he takes it into his mouth, and I cry out, my back arching off thedesk. My fingers tangle in his dark hair, holding him to me as pleasure shoots straight to my core.
He lavishes attention on both breasts while his hands work at the button of my jeans. I lift my hips, helping him slide them down along with my panties until I'm completely bare before him. The vulnerability should terrify me, but the way he looks at me—like I'm something precious and perfect—makes me feel powerful instead.
"Konstantin," I breathe, reaching for his belt. My fingers shake as I work the leather free, then move to his zipper. He's hard and hot in my palm when I free him, and he hisses through his teeth at my touch.
"Wait," he says, catching my wrist. "Let me?—"
But I shake my head, guiding him to me. "I need you. Now. Please."
Something in my voice must convince him because he positions himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine. "Tell me if I hurt you," he says, and then he's pushing inside me slowly, carefully, giving me time to adjust to his size.
The stretch is intense, almost overwhelming, but I want it—want him—more than I've ever wanted anything. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss as he fills me completely.
"Move," I whisper against his lips, and he does, setting a rhythm that has me gasping and clinging to him. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through me, building higher and higher until I'm trembling on the edge.
His hands grip my hips, angling me so he hits that perfect spot inside me with every stroke. The desk creaks beneath us, papers and pens falling to the floor, but all I can focus on is the feel of him moving inside me, the way his muscles bunch and flex under my hands, the soft Russian words he murmurs against my ear.
"So tight," he groans, his pace becoming more urgent. "So perfect. My Ivy."
The possessiveness in his voice sends me over the edge. I cry out his name as my orgasm crashes over me, my body clenching around him as pleasure explodes through every nerve. He follows me over, burying his face in my neck as he finds his own release, my name a broken groan from his throat.
We stay like that for long moments, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other. Finally, Konstantin pulls back to look at me, his hand gentle as he brushes my hair away from my face.
"Are you all right?" he asks softly, and I know he’s not talking about the sex. He’s asking me if I’m alright after finding out my father was in the Mafia.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. He helps me sit up, gathering my scattered clothes while I try to process what just happened. The intensity of it, the way we came together like we were trying to heal each other's wounds through touch alone.
He disappears briefly, returning with a warm cloth to clean me up with tender care. Then he helps me dress, his movements gentle and reverent, before pulling on his own clothes.
"Stay here," he says, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "I'll get us something from the kitchen."
While he's gone, I try to make sense of the chaos of emotions swirling through me. The physical connection we just shared was incredible, but it's the emotional intimacy that leaves me feeling raw and exposed. The way he held me, looked at me, whispered my name like it was sacred.
He returns with a tray of tea and some of the leftover Christmas cookies Anya made, setting it on the small table by the window. The normalcy of it—sharing tea and cookies after such intensity—makes my chest tight with an emotion I'm not ready to name.
"Tell me about my father," I say quietly as he settles beside me on the small couch. "Please. I need to know."
Konstantin is quiet for a long moment, his hands wrapped around his tea cup. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost reverent.
"Andrei was a good man," he begins. "One of the best I've ever known. He never wanted the life he was born into, but he was loyal to his family, to his obligations."
I think of my father—the man who taught me to ride a bike, who read me bedtime stories, who always seemed to know when I needed a hug. "He didn't seem like…"
