The smell of old paper and dust was a familiar comfort, a scent Alianna Morozova preferred to people. Her black hair, a dark river down her back, swayed as her sharp eyes scanned the shelves. She ignored the world; a skill perfected over twenty-seven years in Moscow. A sudden impact jarred her, a solid warmth against her shoulder.
She stumbled, catching herself on a shelf. A stack of books in the man's arms tumbled to the carpet with a soft thump. Her gaze, a practiced weapon of ice, shot upward, raking over him. Tall. A black knit sweater, white pants. Browline glasses perched on a face that was all sharp angles and soft promises. He looked like a scholar, but his mouth held a hint of something else.Her lips twisted. Another idiot. She didn't bother with an apology, simply turned on the heel of her boot to walk away.
"Ty idiot," she muttered under her breath, the Russian words a satisfying hiss.
Behind her, she heard him adjust his glasses. "My apologies. I'm Andrew. Andrew Bennett."
She didn't slow down. Her short skirt swished around her thighs as she made a sharp turn into the Romance section, her intended destination. A faint, lingering trace of his cologne—sandalwood and something spicy—chased her. Annoying. She paused, pretending to examine a binding. A flicker of movement in the periphery. Was he following her? She took another turn, then another, weaving through the labyrinth of shelves. She'd lost him. Good.
Her heart jumped into her throat. A low, impossibly deep voice spoke right behind her ear, the English words shaped by a posh British accent that did not match the predatory tone.
"Are we playing cat and mouse, little miss?"
A shiver, hot and completely unwelcome, skittered down her spine. How could a man with such an innocent face sound like that? Like velvet wrapped around gravel. She spun around, her back meeting the solid oak of a bookshelf. Trapped.
Her first English words to him were laced with a thick Russian accent. "You are a creep."
He just smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips. He placed a hand flat on the shelf above her head, caging her in without touching her. He leaned in, his breath a warm ghost against her cheek. "Mne nravitsya gonit'sya za tem, chto mne nravitsya," he whispered. I like to chase what I like. The Russian was fluent, accentless. Then, lower, a secret for only her: "Kukla." Doll.
Rage, hot and bright, flashed through her. Her small hand shot out, fisting in the soft black wool of his sweater, yanking him closer. He didn't resist, just held his hands up in a mock surrender, that infuriating grin never fading.
"Why not tell me your name before you try to kill me, hm?" he asked, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses.
She released him with a shove that didn't move him an inch. "Alianna," she spat, the name a weapon.
"Alianna," he repeated, tasting it. Then, fast as a striking snake, his hands were on her. He spun her around, her front facing the shelves. One of his hands covered hers on the wood, pinning it. The other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back flush against the hard, shocking heat of his body. She could feel every solid inch of him.
"Kukla," he murmured again, his mouth at her ear. "It fits you, doll." His voice was a dark caress. His hips pressed forward, a slow, deliberate grind that made her breath catch. "Such a perfect, tight little ass on you. I knew it the second you walked away."
Her pulse hammered against her ribs. She should knee him. Scream. Something. But her body refused the command, melting back into his strength.
His hand left her waist, skating up her side, over the chic fabric of her turtleneck hoodie. His fingers, those long, beautiful fingers, traced the line of her ribcage, feather-light. "And these," he whispered, his palm hovering just over her breast. "These perfect little tits. I want to feel them in my hands, Alianna. I want to suck your nipples until you forget how to speak any language at all."
A shaky exhale escaped her. "Durák..." Idiot. The insult lacked any fire.
He chuckled, a low, dirty sound. His free hand came up, his fingers gently tilting her chin to the side so he could see her profile. His thumb stroked her jaw. "You can call me whatever you want, kukla, so long as you say it while you're coming on my fingers."
His mouth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Not a kiss. A slow, open-mouthed drag of his lips that left a trail of fire. A soft, wet shhhhhk of skin on skin. His teeth grazed her earlobe, a sharp, promising threat. His other hand slid down from her waist, his fingertips skating under the hem of her tiny skirt. The sensation was electric. A gasp tore from her lips.
His palm cupped her ass, squeezing once, firm and possessive. "Fuck, you feel good. I'm going to peel these tights off you with my teeth. I'm going to spread these incredible thighs and fuck them until I come all over your perfect skin. You'll feel every hot, filthy pulse of it."
His words painted a vivid, shocking picture in her mind. Her head fell back against his shoulder, a silent surrender. He took it as the invitation it was. His mouth crashed down on hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. A deep, hungry exploration that tasted of mint and sheer, unadulterated male want. His tongue swept into her mouth, and a muffled mmmph was all she could manage. One hand tangled in her long hair, holding her still for his conquest, while the other kneaded the flesh of her ass through her tights. The rough, rustling fabric was the only sound besides their ragged breathing.
He broke the kiss, both of them panting. His intense eyes, dark with desire, scanned her flushed face. He adjusted his glasses with one finger, the polite gesture a wild contrast to the carnality in his gaze. "Now," he breathed, his voice ragged.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her tights and the flimsy underwear beneath. "Let's see what other sounds I can pull from you."
I HOPE THAT I TRANSLATED THE RUSSIAN PARTS WELL. IF NOT DONT COME FOR ME.
