Page 177 of Ruthless Sin
I lift my face from her shoulder. Her face is in front of mine, her eyes dry, her hands still on me. She has been the steady one. Of course she has.
I want to turn my face the half inch it would take. I don’t. She gave mekhoroshoand I am not going to take more than she offered.
“Khorosho.”Okay.
Her hands stay at the back of my head and her forehead comes back to mine and she stays for one long breath, and the warmth of her goes all the way down through the grief and the tape and the damage, and my chest aches with it, and I am going to carry that ache into whatever comes next.
“Together,” she says.
“Together.”
32
MILA
He says it back.
“Together.”
His forehead is still against mine. Neither of us moves. His hands are still at his sides and the want in them reaches me from here, the discipline of a man holding himself in place when everything in him wants to reach, and my pulse is in my throat and the room is very quiet.
I take his hand.
I walk him to the bed.
He sits on the edge when I stop in front of him and I step between his knees and his hands go to my hips, light, careful, the way he always touches me, asking with the pressure, and I look at his face. The bruised eyebrow, still yellow-green at the edges. The gray under his eyes. The mouth that has been set in a line for days and is not set in a line right now.
I put both my hands on his chest and push. Slow. Deliberate.
He goes back onto the bed without resistance. On his back, his face turned up to mine, watching me climb onto the mattress and then onto him, my knees either side of his thighs. He does not grab. He does not pull. His hands are open at his sides andhe is watching my face the way he watches everything, like he is memorizing it, like he does not trust himself to look away.
I start with his shirt.
Each button slow. His eyes follow my hands. The shirt opens and I push it off his shoulders and he moves his arms only enough to let me take it. I drop it off the bed. He is bare from the waist up. The tape at his ribs, white against the olive skin, the edges lifting slightly where Giada put it days ago. The scar at his shoulder I have never asked about. The line of dark hair from his sternum down.
Heat moves through me so sharply I have to breathe through it.
I reach for the waist of his pants. He lifts his hips the inch I need. I take his pants off, his underwear, drop them off the bed beside the shirt. He is naked under me and hard and looking at my face and I am still in my dress and the chain at my throat and the want in me is something I have been carrying since the first night in this house that is finally allowed to be put down.
I lift the dress over my head. Unhook my bra. Drop both on the floor.
I am on him in nothing but the chain.
He looks at my face. Not my body. My face. His jaw is tight and his hands are open at his sides and his voice comes out low and wrecked.
“Mila.”
Just that. My name like it costs him something to hold it in his mouth.
I am wet before I reach for him. I take his cock in my left hand, he is hard and hot and his breath goes sharp through his nose the second I touch him, and I lower myself onto him. Slow. An inch. His teeth go into his lower lip. Another inch. His hand goes to my waist, light, not pulling, just resting there.
I take the rest of him and sit. He fills me completely, the stretch and the heat and the fullness of it, and my breath comes out ragged and my thighs are shaking slightly and it is not pain, it is not anything like pain, it is the opposite of everything that came before this and my eyes go wet and I blink it back.
I look at his face. His eyes are on mine and they are the ones underneath everything else he shows the room and he is giving them to me and only me right now and my chest aches with the cost of that.
“Ty moy.” You’re mine.
His face breaks open. The breath comes out wrong, through his mouth, ragged. He closes his eyes for half a second. Opens them.
