“I want you.” Dmitri’s voice is low, harsh, and dangerous. His breath whispers across my skin, and his eyes are so dark they’re almost black. “But I can’t. Fucking. Have. You.”
“Can’t or won’t? I’m right here, Dmitri. I’m right fucking here!” I push against his hold on me like I’m trying to shove our bodies together. My heart is racing, and I can feel myself flushing, hot all over. “Goddamn it! You drive me insane. You’re such an assholes sometimes, but I still want you so bad it fucking kills me. And if you really don’t want me, then just tell me, and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll get over it eventually—I’ll figure out some way to move on. But don’t tell me you want me and can’t have me, because that’s a load of bullshit, and you know it. I’m right here, and I want you! I want your heart. I want your mind. I want your crankiness and your moodiness and those little moments of sweetness that slip through and make me feel like I really am a goddamn princess. I want every single annoying, frustrating, irritating thing about y—”
I don’t get the rest of my sentence out, because before I can say anything else, Dmitri smashes his mouth against mine and kisses me.
I’m startled by the suddenness of it, and I nearly fall backward, wrapping my arms around him on instinct, and for a second, it’s all clashing lips and teeth like we’re at war. And then Dmitri hauls me to him properly, gets his hand in my hair, tilts my head, and then—oh, then it’s good. It’s intense, chaotic, and deep, just like Dmitri, and I’m not surprised in the slightest, but it’s still so much that I have to cling to him for fear that I’ll melt.
Now that he’s started, it’s like all the ropes that have been holding him back are cut loose, and he’s free-falling. He’s pouring everything into this kiss, and I’m helpless, unable to do anything but try to keep up and go along for the ride.
Not that I’m complaining. Dmitri knows what he’s doing, and his dominance is hot as fuck.
He’s muttering into my mouth in between kisses, something that sounds like, “It’s you. It’s always been you.”
I feel those words down to the depths of my soul, feel them almost as much as his hot, demanding lips on mine, and they light me on fire.
It’s me.
It’s him.
It’s us.
This is happening.
Fucking finally.
He’s still kissing me like he’s trying to consume me alive, and he releases his grip on my hair so his hands can roam possessively over the rest of me. We keep banging up against the shelves, knocking things loose, moving around the little room erratically as we battle each other and the laws of physics that refuse to let our bodies meld into one.
When he fists the front of my shirt in both hands, I quickly grab the hem of the fabric. I have a feeling it’s going to be demolished if it doesn’t get out of his way in about point two seconds, and I don’t have a backup shirt with me. I’m fairly certain anybody walking by could make a good guess as to what’s going on in here, but if I walk out of this closet with my shirt shredded into a vest, they’ll know for sure.
He lets go of the fabric as I tug it from his hands and haul it over my head, and when his gaze drops to my chest, which is rising and falling fast as I try to get my breath back, the look on his face nearly makes me come on the spot.
He looks entranced.
Hungry.
Possessive.
With a growl, he yanks me back into his arms, and his lips descend on me again, working their way down my throat, across my collarbone, over the swell of my breasts. He keeps moving downward, pressing me back against a shelving unit as his mouth trails down my stomach. His hands are way ahead of his lips, already working the button of my jeans, sliding the zipper down, pushing them over the swell of my hips until my light purple panties are exposed.
He drags his nose across the already damp fabric, and my knees almost buckle. I fist his hair in both hands, fighting to keep my drooping eyelids open. I feel a little drunk, to be honest—the massive emotional swings of the past hour coupled with his touch are making me