Part 6 (1/2)

”Why bother?” Blows would be better than this faux intimacy. He was her enemy. ”Just what do you think is going to happen here?”

”I can't see past five minutes from now.”

Hunger gave his voice a raw edge. Her resolution slipped, and her own voice cracked as she made her last protest. ”I can see the future, quite clearly. Even if I let you do this, I'm not going to marry you. We will fight again. I promise you it won't end well.”

The grim turn of his mouth told her he understood, but he was going to do what he wanted anyway. Of course he would. He was a knyaz.

He peeled her hand off the wound. The pain flooded in with the fresh air. Wincing, she turned her head aside.

”Wait,” she said. ”Do you have any blood in your mouth?” No way was she going to end up bonded to him through accidental fluid exchange.

Solemnly he spat into his palm and showed her the clear fluid, then wiped his hand on his trousers.

She turned her face away again.

He bent to her shoulder and dragged his rough tongue across the ragged hole.

Maybe he'd mistake her gasp for pain-she hoped so-but all the pain vanished at the first stroke of his tongue. After that, every precise lap, every gentle, sucking kiss gave her nothing but pleasure. Obscene, shameful, disgusting pleasure.

Jaded as she was, she'd never experienced anything quite so kinky. She closed her eyes and inhaled the mingled scents of blood and gunpowder and chlorine and...Mikhail. His scent had always reminded her of fresh gra.s.s and new leaves.

He lifted his head from her shoulder. She gave him her best poker face, so he wouldn't know she was as perverted as him.

”Your back?” His tone was clipped, but a hint of a growl slipped into it nonetheless. She knew what that growl meant and her body responded. Years of training, years of fulfilling the whims of haughty, dangerous princes taught her to be open and wet when they wanted her.

She gave him her back, but as she did, she slid her hand under the sofa cus.h.i.+on and found the knife she kept stashed there.

He circled the exit wound with his tongue, and the absurd pleasure began all over again. Just as intense. More. As he lapped, his hands inched up her waist, and she let it happen.

Not good. Not good at all, Alya.

She clutched the knife hilt, but sighed as his hands cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. All she wanted in the world was for him to thrum her nipples while he sucked at her flesh. And as if by magic, he did exactly what she wished. She could not repress a low moan of pleasure.

”Do you trust me?” he murmured against her skin.

”No. Do you trust me?”

”Do you think I'm crazy?”

She could not help but be thrilled by the low timbre of his voice. Or rather, the power that vibrated through it. He swept her hair to one side and kissed her nape. ”So, when are you going to use that knife on me?”

”Soon. So soon.”

Pus.h.i.+ng his luck, he pulled her onto his lap. She spun in his arms and pressed the point of her knife under his chin. He grinned.

It was the first real smile she'd seen out of him, and what a smile it was: crooked, brilliant, reckless. The smile of a man about to jump out of an airplane. She wanted to kiss him for it. She wished she could be that reckless.

Instead, she twisted the knife in warning. ”A prince can't trust anyone. He sits facing the door. Sleeps with a blade under his pillow.”

”That's true,” he said.

”A prince can't even trust those closest to him.”

”I trust my family.”

Figured. Those smug, virtuous Faustins, all Beaver Cleaver cozy in their little Brooklyn brownstone.

He continued. ”And I'd trust my wife.”

”Then you'd be a fool.”

They were so close she could see a tiny, star-shaped scar marring the skin under his right eye. So close she could count the sunburst rays of white that surrounded his pupils. Those h.o.a.rfrost stripes were what made his eyes uncanny from a distance.

His lips softened and parted, just a little. Electricity crawled thick between them.

This was a dangerous, dangerous desire. Her wound was closed and the pain gone. She didn't need him anymore. There was no reason to stay this close to him.

And there was no way she could walk away.

d.a.m.n it, what's happening to me?

Her mouth dry, her heart loud in her ears, she eased the point of the knife from his chin, tilted it, and slid the flat of the blade up his cheek. A s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed through him and he lowered his eyes, his long silver lashes sweeping his cheeks. In anyone else she'd take it as a gesture of submission, but she guessed he was battling for self-control. A knyaz took what he wanted, when he wanted it. Mikhail was being too good. He was up to something.

His intentions deserved to be tested.

Tilting her head, she brushed her mouth over his. Both of them had bruised, swollen lips. Even a light kiss hurt. Mikhail made a short, pained noise, but drew her closer, threading his fingers through her hair.

Again she kissed him, open mouthed this time. He groaned again. Anguished. He stopped being careful and good. She caught fire. They pressed one another hard, the pleasure of their kiss laced with pain, the pain spurring them on.

Mikhail took her down to the floor. He wedged himself between her legs, his c.o.c.k pressed exactly where it wanted to be. But there was a problem. She'd gone still.

He raised his head and looked down at her. Her eyes were wide. Fear? Not likely. Anger, maybe. The knife glinted in her hand.

”I won't. You can't top me,” she gasped, breathless.

”Top you how?”

She eyed him suspiciously. ”That's cute, Faustin.”

In one slippery move she flipped him on his back and straddled him. He grabbed her wrist, staying her knife. She didn't fight his grip. All he could focus on was how much he wanted to kiss her.

Her knees tightened against his ribs. ”This is how I play. I call the shots.”

He opened his hands. ”Tell me what you want. I'll do it.”

”Anything at all? I find that hard to believe, knyaz.” She gave him a sardonic little smile that he found unspeakably s.e.xy.

Anything to be inside you again. ”Try me.”

She stood. ”Get up and strip.”