Page 39 of Secret Heir

I refuse to allow him to make me feel guilty. His face is inches from mine now, and I can see the pain in his eyes mixing with the anger. It’s written in the lines around his mouth and in the hardness that wasn’t there before.

“I did what I had to do.” My voice is barely a whisper and I swallow heavily. “To protect him.”

“You did what you wanted to do.” His grip on my arms is almost bruising now. “You ran because you were scared and didn’t trust me even though I’ve never given you any reason to not⁠—”

I don’t know which one of us moves first.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s both of us, pulled together by weeks of fury.

His mouth crashes into mine, hard and furious. It’s not gentle or sweet like his kisses used to be. It’s anger and frustration and eight years of loss compressed into one brutal kiss.

I should push him away and slap him silly, telling him not to touch me ever again.

But I’m kissing him back just as hard.

My hands are fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams at me to stop.

His hands move from my arms to my hair, fingers threading through the strands and gripping tight, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss.

The kiss is teeth and tongue.

I can taste the vodka on his lips, sharp and burning.

He walks me backward, and my spine hits the bookshelf hard enough to rattle the volumes.

Books tumble to the floor around us with soft thuds, forgotten.

His body presses against mine, all hard muscle and heat, and I can feel every inch of him—the broad chest, the powerful thighs, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal against my stomach.

“I hate you,” I breathe against his mouth, even as my hands are pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.

“I know.” His voice is rough. He bites my lower lip hard enough to make me gasp. “I hate you too.”

His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point.

I arch into him, my head falling back against the bookshelf, and he takes advantage, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

His hands find the hem of my shirt, and he yanks it over my head with impatient movements.

For a moment, he just looks at me.

His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there’s something feral and possessive in his expression that should terrify me but instead makes heat pool low in my belly.

“Eight years,” he says, his voice barely recognizable. “I’ve thought about this for eight years. About you.”

Then his mouth is on me again before it falls to my collarbone, the swell of my breasts above my bra, the sensitive skin of my ribs.

His stubble scrapes against my skin, rough and perfect, and I’m gasping and whimpering, his name falling from my lips.

I make sounds I can’t control and I don’t want to. It’s been so long since I’ve felt my blood warm like this.

The last time had been with Maksim.

My fingers work at his belt, clumsy with need and anger. He doesn’t help me, too busy marking my throat with his teeth, leaving evidence of this moment that I’ll see tomorrow.

Finally I get it undone, and my hand slides into his pants.

He groans against my skin when I wrap my fingers around him, and the sound goes straight through me.