Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(52)

“Sometimes I’d play a mental trick on myself where I would imagine another man had tried to move in on you—I would imagine it, and then I’d put my nose to your beautiful neck and breathe in your scent and go f*cking wild. I’d press your hands over your head and f*ck your brains out and make you mine again. You enjoyed when I had that feeling in me, when I was lost with this feeling of madness.”

I try to force myself to look at his hands only, but my eyes travel over his hard arms, corded with muscle. My mouth goes dry as I imagine him lost to such a feeling. As I imagine him taking his fill of me, heartlessly devouring me, wild and out of control. Every nerve ending on my skin comes alive at the thought of him pushing me down and taking me like that.

He smiles. “Now my secret’s out.”

I open my mouth to protest, but the words fall from my mind.

“We’d sometimes be sent into group situations, posing as strangers in public places. I had to pretend not to know you. I enjoyed that because I’d see you anew, from the eyes of a stranger, and I’d have to treat you coolly, but inside my hunger for you would rage.” He smiles at the memory. “You’d always taunt me a little bit, because you knew. And you had stranger sex fantasies. You loved anytime I played the dark stranger. When we’d finally be out of the place or off the job, we’d pretend we were still strangers and be f*cking sometimes before we hit the car. In an alley, often. We’d talk to each other in our stranger roles. I would push you up against a wall and take you as a stranger. Like I told you before. It was true.”

What he doesn’t understand is that he’s a stranger to me now. Is that why I want him so feverishly? I look away, but my mind is a boat in a maelstrom, spinning from the force of desire. I’m drunk on the sound of his voice and his dark stories.

“You liked a little pressure right on your neck—”

“No, I wouldn’t—I couldn’t.”

“Not choking. Just a little…like this.” My eyes widen as he presses his huge hand to my neck, his palm rough and warm on my tender skin. He pushes my head backwards to the end of the bed and holds me there. “Claiming pressure. Exactly like that.”

This neck hold does something to me. My sex throbs. My pulse bangs against his fingers.

“Just enough to let you know you’re mine. To let you know my intention to take your body fully and completely. To let you know that I planned to rip off your clothes and take you in whatever way I wish.”

I should push his hand away, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “Like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that?”

He removes his hand from my neck and lifts me. My leg chains clank as he lays me down on the rug. He kneels over me. “You liked it just like that.” His dark eyes flash in the firelight as he threads his fingers into mine, our hands forming two fists. His tie hangs loose, sliding against the side of my neck as he presses our two fists over my head and down onto the thick shag rug, palms hot against mine.

This is the way a rough man holds a woman’s hands, I think—forming two hot fists. And I think it feels good.

The rough fur of the rug prickles the backs of my hands. He holds me still like that, dark eyes fierce above me, inky lashes flashing in the firelight.

His eyes drift to where my pulse throbs in my neck, and I know he’s seeing it. I think he sees everything of me. He sees more of me than if I were naked.

“Viktor,” I say.

“What, lisichka?”

“I’m too far away.” I don’t know whether I mean from him or Jesus.

“I have you.” He kneels over me, trapping my legs with his feet and knees now, while he holds my hands in place over my head. “You always felt safe when you were trapped like this.” He gazes down into my eyes. “Again?”

I narrow my eyes.

“Where am I now?”

The game. But he’s not covering my eyes this time. I gasp as he lowers himself to me. He presses himself down between my legs, shifting to touch me there, suit pants to my jeans, hard ridge to my sex. I roll my hips up to meet the feeling. It spreads over me. I can’t let it stop.

“Where am I?”

“Viktor,” I pant.

He transfers my hands to one hand, still capturing them, and then he takes my chin between his finger and his thumb and he kisses me.

I kiss him back, moving under him, taking more of his ridge with my body. I think I’ve travelled somewhere.

He presses his hand onto my breast, then. “This shirt. You kill me with this shirt and nothing underneath. You kill me.” He holds my breast, squeezes, then slides his hand back up to my neck.

He kisses my neck in the V of his thumb and forefinger and proceeds to unbutton my shirt. His shirt. He kisses every new patch of skin that he bares to the air. One button, then another button, more skin, another kiss. He finds my tattoo and kisses it. He’ll have my shirt open soon.

I lock my legs around his. The push of his body overwhelms me.

“Tanechka,” he whispers, pressing his hand to my belly. I feel split open—my body is pure need for him. The champagne and his warm words softened me up, but Viktor and the poem split me open.

“How does this feel?”

I think I’m going backwards, losing touch with my simple life of poverty and chastity. I knew who I was there, and now I don’t. I feel frantic and confused with lust.