eyes back open, the man’s beautifully scarred face was the only thing I could see. He was so close that I couldn’t escape his attention—his light eyes, his fair skin, jet-black shaven hair, and angular face. But his lips? My eyes could not resist slipping back to stare at those lips. They were full and thick, despite the small upper scar, yet looked so soft to the touch. I idly wondered, Whoever sent this man to kill my brother chose him well. Not only because of his effectiveness in torture, but also for his terrifying looks, which were somehow, to me, both savage and divine.
The man’s body displayed no trace of fat. As he pulled the sweatpants from his body, my face blazed at the sight of this naked man. I had no reference, no sexual experience with men, not even platonic.
He had kidnapped me.
He had hurt me
He had tortured me.
But now I was seeing another side of him. The one who called me kitten in his native Russian and now raked back my hair, whose eyes flared and mouth hissed when he stroked his rough hand—intimately—over my naked skin.
My mind was a mixture of confusion. I was constantly on edge, wondering if the next touch would bring me pain or would whatever was in the man’s collar change him back into the bringer of torture and pain? Yet under his current ministrations, a strange sense of safety had washed through me. I was more convinced than not that he wouldn’t hurt me.
I didn’t understand any of it.
He moved in, lifting his hands to brush back hair from my face. I felt so small as his large frame towered over me. It seemed to consume me.
One hand drifted down to hold on to my jaw. He twisted my head, until my neck and cheek were open to his attentions. He inched in, his lips ghosting along my cheek, but not kissing the skin, just brushing all along the side of my face. His breath tickled my ear. Hot shivers bolted down my spine.
Wordlessly, the man’s lips moved down to my neck and followed the same path as his tongue had previously made. A low rumble sounded from his chest. In my hair his hand was still. He inhaled a long breath. “You smell so sweet, kotyonok.” My legs weakened as his hoarse voice rasped in my ear. His hand released my face, and as he turned his hand the backs of his fingers began running down the side of my neck, slowly and featherlight. Goose bumps emerged in their wake. When his hand landed just above my breast, my breathing paused. I waited for his next touch with bated breath.
Suddenly, hearing him releasing a frustrated strained groan, I felt a press of warmth against my neck. I was shocked to stillness wondering what he was doing. Then his mouth moved down my throat just a fraction and the feeling of warmth hit me again. Realization hit hard—he was kissing my neck.
In this moment I was glad my arms and legs were restrained. With his touch, this man’s whispered gentle touch, I feared I would have fallen to the floor.
I had never been kissed.
I had never felt a man press his lips against mine. I had never felt this before, soft strong lips caressing the skin on my neck. Part of me didn’t want it. I wanted to push him off my body, punish him for taking away a first that I’d dreamed of having with a man I loved. But at the same time I strangely didn’t want him to stop. This feeling, this strange feeling for the savage but mysterious man, was engulfing me.
My back arched as his lips continued to caress my neck. The feeling intensified when the hand on my chest cupped my breast.
Against my will, a moan slipped from my throat and my eyes rolled at the forbidden feel of his hot mouth on my skin. “Mmm,” he murmured as his teeth scraped slowly to the edge of my shoulder. “So sweet.”
An ache hit me between my legs. I tried to push the feeling away. But as I glanced down and saw his glittering blue eyes looking back up at me, the tip of his tongue laving my skin, my heart pounded and the ache built higher still.
He traveled farther down my body, until his knees hit the floor and his mouth was level with my breasts.
Both of his hands fell to grip the sides of