“Yes, it does.” My voice came out sharper than I’d intended.
“I don’t need sleep.”
I snorted. “Everyone needs sleep. Even you.”
Luka leaned forward until his knees touched the chair and took my face in his hands. His palms were rough and warm, bracing my jaw as if he could steady the chaos inside my head. His eyes were impossibly blue, as if lit from within.
“We only have one night left,” he said. “I don’t need sleep. I need you.”
My heart did a slow, uneasy pivot. I wanted to quip, to slice the tension with sarcasm, but the gravity in his face held me to the moment. Luka traced his thumbs along my cheekbones and leaned in, his mouth close enough to ghost heat over my lips.
But no closer.
I realized he was waiting for me to move first.
My choice.
I closed the gap.
But I didn’t kiss him—there was no space for something so sentimental and sappy.
I bit him.
My teeth scraped his lower lip—hard enough that he gasped. Then I softened it, tongue chasing the sting, tasting salt and adrenaline. Luka groaned and cupped the back of my skull, his thumb pressing at the hinge of my jaw. For a second, I thought he’d devour me whole.
I wanted him to.
The vodka turned the room kaleidoscopic. The blood in my veins burned molten. And I was drawn to Luka like a moth to a blowtorch.
He surged forward, pressing me back into the chair until the leather creaked in protest. I opened for him, my thighs partingas he settled between them. He pushed up my skirt with broad, flat palms.
The shock of the day sharpened into a physical hunger, urgent and bright. I wanted him to mark me, to overwrite the humiliation in my bones with something that belonged only to us.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice dark and rough.
I wasn’t even sure what that meant anymore. I couldn’t remember the last time someone hadn’t taken my “okay” for granted.
So I said the only honest thing I could muster.
“No. Make it better.”
He did.
He hooked my right knee over the arm of the leather chair, opening me, kneeling between my thighs. He pressed his palm along the inside of my leg—claiming the space before taking it.
He ran a finger along the seam of my panties. Even through the fabric, the muted pressure sparked along every nerve. I spread wider, chasing it.
He didn’t give more.
“Please,” I said, my voice rough, starved.
Luka stifled a dark chuckle and pushed the damp fabric aside, exposing me to the cold air and his gaze at once. He watched my reaction, the way I tilted my hips into his touch.
“You have good manners today,” he said as he parted me with two fingers, unhurried, then circled my clit with the most devastating restraint.
The urge to grind against his hand, to beg, nearly swallowed thought.
“Actually,” I said, hesitating briefly, “can I ask you for something?”