Instead, he takes one step back, as if giving me space to do exactly that.
And something in me snaps.
I cross the room before I can think better of it.
Roman catches me when I reach him. Not because I fall, but because I come at him too fast, hands already on his coat, mouth already finding his. He makes a rough sound under his breath, the kind of sound that feels torn out of a man who had been holding himself still for too long.
Then he kisses me back.
God.
His hands close around my waist and pull me hard against him. My coat falls open between us. I push at his shoulders, not to get him away but to feel more of him, to get past wool and buttons and all the layers that kept us civilized in public.
Roman walks me backward until my hips hit the edge of the sofa.
The kiss turns hungry.
His tongue slides against mine, deep and demanding, and I open for him without hesitation. My hands go into his hair, ruining the perfect order of it. He growls softly when I tug, and the sound goes straight through me, low and hot.
He breaks the kiss just enough to look at me. “You did not drink tonight.”
“No.”
His gaze roams over my face. “Tell me why.”
My breathing is already unsteady. “Because I wanted to know.”
“Know what?”
“That this is real.” I swallow, my fingers tightening in his hair. “That I want you when I’m sober.”
His jaw flexes. “And do you?”
I press myself against him, feeling the hard length of him through his trousers. “Yes.”
His eyes darken.
That’s all the warning I get.
Roman turns me in his arms, his chest against my back, his mouth at the side of my throat. His fingers find the zipper of my dress and draw it down slowly, so slowly that the sound of it seems indecent in the quiet living room.
The dress falls apart under his massive, calloused hands.
I close my eyes as cool air touches my skin.
He pushes the fabric off my shoulders, kissing the bare place he uncovers. His mouth moves from my neck to the curve of myshoulder, then lower, and my head falls back against him. The dress slides over my breasts, my waist, my hips, pooling at my feet in a dark green circle.
I’m left in lace and stockings in the middle of his living room, with Moscow spread beyond the windows.
My first instinct is to cover myself.
Roman stops me before I can.
His hands catch mine and hold them at my sides.
“No,” he says against my ear. “Let me look.”
My body turns molten under those words.