He is kissing me.
His lips are firm, demanding, and they taste of whiskey and dark intent.
For one endless second, every thought I own screams in protest.
Then his tongue traces the seam of my lips and something deep in my gutunclenches.
A moan rips from my throat, vibrating into his mouth, and I am kissing him back.
Oh I’m so stupid! I’m—oh fuck.
Razvan pulls me flat against him and I can feel his hard chest against my nipples.
My hands fist in the dark fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer, and I kiss him with a hunger that scares me, all teeth and tongue and furious need.
Yes. Fuck, yes.
When he pulls back, we’re both gasping. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes squeezed shut. A rough, pained soundworks its way out of him. “It’s not enough,” he growls. “It’s not fucking enough.”
I shake my head.It isn’t.God help me, it isn’t even close.
He moves fast.
A knife flashes in his hand, and with two sharp tugs, the plastic ties around my wrists snap apart.
Then my ankles are free.
I don’t move to run.
And that’s stupid as hell but I don’t know what’s going on with me.
I don’t move, I watch him, my vision hazy with want, as he sheathes the blade. His eyes never leave mine.
He yanks me forward by my waist and I go, stumbling into him. His mouth finds mine again, and this kiss is deeper, messier. I can feel the hard ridge of his hardness straining against his pants, pressed against my stomach, and I grind against it instinctively. A ragged groan tears from his chest, and his hands drop to my ass, kneading the flesh through my pants, pulling me tighter into that delicious friction.
“Fuck, Lena,” he mutters against my lips, his voice shredded.
He stands suddenly, lifting me with him.
I lock my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and he carries me out of the cell. I don’t look at the corridor.
I press my face into the warm skin of his neck and breathe him in—cedar, iron, male sweat. He takes the stairs, his steps sure and steady even with my weight, and pushes through a heavy door.
It’s vast and dark and warm, a bed the size of a small country, heavy curtains, wood and leather, the kind of room that belongs to a man who is used to taking up space. He doesn’t put me on the bed. He takes me through another door into a bathroom where he sets me down and turns on the shower, the water runs warm then hot.
Then his hands are on me again, slower now.
Deliberate.
He peels my ruined jacket from my shoulders, lets it fall to the tile with a slap. His fingers hook under the hem of my shirt, and he draws it up and over my head.
The cool air hits my skin, and my nipples pull into tight, aching points behind my plain bra.
His gaze drops, and his thumbs sweep over the peaks through the fabric.
A sharp gasp escapes me.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice low. “All this time, wanting this. Needing it.”