After everything—the cell, the chains, the way my body had been taken and used until I barely recognized it as mine—he still looked at me like this. Like I was something worth desiring. Worth touching. Worth wanting.
The realization cracked something open in my chest, grief flooding in fresh and sharp. I’d thought I’d gone numb to it. Thought I’d buried it deep enough.
I was wrong.
He broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, his forehead resting against mine, his hands shaking slightly as if he were holding himself back.
Then he lifted me.
Effortlessly.
His hands cupped my ass, strong and sure, and my body responded without conscious thought—my legs wrapping around his waist, clinging to him like instinct remembered before fear could interfere.
He carried me to the bed without breaking our connection, kisses trailing along my jaw, my throat, my mouth again, before lowering me gently onto the mattress.
Gently.
The contrast nearly undid me.
He straightened and pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. Muscles shifted beneath scarred skin—old bullet wounds, knife marks, pale lines etched into him like a map of violence survived. A life lived hard and dangerous. A body that had endured and kept standing.
My hands shook as I tugged at my own top, shoving it over my head, breath coming too fast. I arched, reaching behind me to unhook my bra, but my fingers fumbled uselessly. They wouldn’t cooperate, trembling like they didn’t trust what came next.
Dmitri was there instantly.
He knelt between my thighs, movements slow now, deliberate, as if he were approaching something fragile instead of something he wanted desperately.
His hands slid around my back, warm and steady, anchoring me again.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
I did.
He unhooked the bra with practiced ease, then drew the straps down my arms slowly, reverently, like every second mattered. Like he was reminding me—reminding himself—that this was my body, my choice, my moment.
The lace fell away.
Cool air kissed my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and ribs.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t touch right away.
He simply looked at me.
Not with hunger alone—but with awe. With something dangerously close to devotion.
Like I was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
And in that moment, lying beneath him with my heart exposed as much as my skin, I almost believed it too.
He stood, peeling off his trousers and boxers.
His erection sprang free—thick, hard, flushed dark with want.
My breath caught.
He bent again, fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans.
I grabbed his wrist—instinctive, reflexive.