I watch him undress with a detachment I don't actually feel. The shirt falls away, revealing the panther and the viper, the chains and roses, all that dangerous art mapped across a body I've explored with my hands and mouth.
The rat bastard is playing dirty.
He strips down to black boxers and slides beneath the covers, propping himself against the headboard, watching me with patient heat.
"Come to bed, jungle flower."
I should argue. Should demand to sleep in the guest room. Should maintain the distance that's the only thing protecting my sanity.
Instead, I turn my back to him and reach for the zipper of my dress.
I let the silk pool at my feet slowly, deliberately, feeling the weight of his gaze on every inch of skin I reveal. The dress didn't allow for a bra, so there's nothing but bare skin from the waist up. My only remaining scrap of modesty is the white silk thong I chose this morning, cut high on my hips to avoid panty lines, leaving very little to the imagination.
I take my time stepping out of the puddle of white at my feet. Roll my shoulders back. Let him look.
A low rumble of appreciation vibrates through the room, and the sound sends a flush of heat racing down my spine. I glance over my shoulder, unable to resist, and find exactly what I hoped for.
His dark eyes have gone molten, burning with a hunger he makes no effort to hide. His jaw is tight, the muscle ticking beneath his beard. His hands hang at his sides, fingers curlingand uncurling like he's fighting the urge to reach for me. The evidence of his desire strains against his boxers, impossible to miss, and a thrill of feminine power courses through my veins.
Good. Let him want. Let him burn. Let him understand exactly what he'll be denied until I decide otherwise.
I hold his gaze for one long, charged moment. Then I turn and cross to the bed, letting my hips sway with each step, and slide beneath the sheets with the stubborn pride that's gotten me through twenty-two years of captivity.
The moment my head hits the pillow, his arm wraps around my waist.
Warm. Solid. He pulls me against his chest, my back to his front, and the sensation is so achingly familiar that tears prick my eyes. This is how we slept that first night. Tangled together like we'd known each other forever. Like we fit.
"Why me?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "You could have anyone. Women throw themselves at men like you."
His lips brush my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. "I've had enough meaningless connections." The words are rough, honest in a way that makes my chest ache. "They were transactions that left me feeling empty and with less inside me than when I started." His arm tightens around me. "You're not a transaction, Ilona. You're the first woman I've wanted for myself in longer than I can remember. Ever, if I'm being honest."
I should hate that answer. Should dissect it for manipulation, for angles, for the leverage men like him are always working.
Instead, I turn in his arms.
His eyes are dark in the candlelight, molten with a hunger he's holding on a tight leash. His hand comes up to trace my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip with devastating gentleness.
"What happens now?" My voice is barely a whisper.
"Whatever you want." His forehead drops to rest against mine. "I told you. Your conditions. Your choices. I'm not going to take anything you don't freely give."
I should pull away. Should remember the blackmail and the lies and the wish I dropped in that box only hours ago.
My hand slides up his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin barrier of his boxers, the rapid pound of his heart beneath my palm. I rise up on my elbow, my gaze dropping to his mouth, to those full lips that have haunted my dreams for eight weeks.
I don't let myself think. Don't let myself second-guess.
I press my lips to his.
His groan vibrates through me as our mouths meet. The kiss is nothing like the gentle brush at the courthouse. This is hunger he’s kept leashed all day, finally let off the chain. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the angle. His tongue sweeps against mine, tasting, claiming, and my body arches into his without conscious thought.
Heat pools low in my belly. My thighs press together. Every nerve ending comes alive beneath his touch.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, gripping my thigh and pulling my leg over his. The position presses me against the hard length of him, separated only by thin fabric, and the friction makes me gasp.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will."
I don't tell him to stop.