Page 52 of Pas de Trois
“I think I enjoy the look of you that way,” she says as I balance on all fours, catching my breath. “Crawl to me and kiss my feet. Or disobey me, and I will find a way to destroy that girl. I promise you.”
For her.
Do it for Anya.
Just do what you have to.
I crawl to her, fighting against every cell in my body that compels me to resist. I bend, resentfully placing a kiss on the top of her foot.
“Is that what you call a kiss?” she scoffs. “I’m certain you can do better than that. Wouldn’t you do better than that for Anya?”
“Stop fucking saying her name.” Renata isn’t worthy enough to let a thought about my girl so much as cross her mind, let alone speak her name.
She kicks under my chin with the pointed toe of her bright red stiletto and my teeth slam together. “Shut your disrespectful mouth or I’ll shut it for you.” She wiggles her foot in front of me. “Now, do better.”
Jesus fuck.
I press my lips to the top of Renata’s delicate foot. I squeeze my eyes shut and because I’m thinking of her, my blue-eyed girl’s perfect face steals space from all other conscious thought in my mind. I can see her so clearly when I let myself release all the tension of my fighting instinct.
It’s only Anya behind my closed lids and she tells me to do what I have to for her. She tells me to imagine it’s her that I kneel for and worship with my kiss. With her blue eyes sparkling in my mind, I can do just that.
Sitting back on my heels, I grip Renata’s heel with one hand and slip the other behind her ankle. I cradle her foot as if it belongs to my girl, as if Anya has asked me to revere her this way.
And I would.
I would do it for her if she asked.
If she asked, I would run my tongue from her toes to her ankle, just like this. I would squeeze her in my grip and run my hand up her calf. I would scatter wet kisses over every inch of skin atop her foot. I would nip at her skin with my teeth, then sooth the sharpness with a flick of my tongue.
Just like I do it now.
My hand is just behind her knee when she finally stops me. She snatches my wrist and holds my hand in place. I open my eyes and look up at her and the spell immediately breaks—I meet dark brown eyes instead of vibrant sapphire blue.
But because I was thinking of Anya, I’m panting. Because I was thinking of her, I’m half fucking hard. I don’t want to be. I don’t fucking want to be, but I am, and I hate myself for it.
A memory from soon after my kidnapping—when I first met Anya—dashes across my mind. We were in my room at Mikhailov Manor. Nikolai had his arms wrapped around Anya from behind, his fingers shoved inside her, stroking. She didn’t want it from him, but he took from her anyway.
He always took from her.
But when her eyes met mine, she sparked, igniting into pure need. He stopped before she came, but she was wet, panting, needy when she crumpled to the floor beside me—panting and needy the way I feel now, and it’s the worst fucking thing I’ve ever felt.
I feel sick.
I feel like a bastard.
I feel like I’m cheating on her, even though I know I have no choice.
I feel now what Anya felt when Nikolai abused her. I could only imagine the pain of it before, but now I understand it.
And hell, that woman is strong for surviving it all.
Stronger than me.
Stronger than any other person I’ve ever known.
Renata uncrosses her legs and puts my hand on the inside of her thigh. “I’ve put Anya in Vigo’s bedroom.”
“You did what?”
