The Mistresses Collection. Оливия Гейтс

her. The way he’d simply … swept her up, from the first moment she’d met him. “That’s what I want, Ivan. I don’t want you to treat me like … like I’m ruined.”

      “You already think I’m a wild, untamed animal,” he pointed out bluntly, though that gleam in his eyes was brighter. Hotter. It made her flush. Squirm slightly where she knelt before him. “Why would I want to go and do something that will inevitably prove it to you?”

      “I don’t think you’re an animal,” she retorted, and as she said it, she realized that it was true. And that she hadn’t thought anything of the kind in a long time. It was astonishing. Dizzying. And it meant a whole host of things she didn’t want to think about. Not here. Not now. She slammed the door shut on all of them and looked at him instead.

      “A caveman,” he continued in that same blunt voice, as if he knew what she was thinking and didn’t care. “A Neanderthal. Testosterone-poisoned.”

      “I said all of those things, yes.” Miranda searched his face, which he kept perfectly blank. But she knew better. She knew he was fighting back the same desire that was coursing through her, making her burn all over again every time she inhaled. She could sense it like some kind of aura that surrounded them both. “Don’t tell me this is your revenge. I called you a caveman and so now you’re going to act like a Victorian maiden?”

      “Yes.” But his other hand moved then, tracing a lazy line up the length of her spine, making her turn molten hot, making goose bumps break out over her arms. “I plan to punish you with lukewarm, perfectly competent sex.”

      By the time he finished the sentence his hand had made it to the nape of her neck, and he left it there, a hot, hard, delicious weight. A kind of sensual promise. She shivered against it, into it, and that crook in the corner of his hard mouth deepened.

      “I’ve already had that,” she reminded him, breathlessly. “I’ve only had that.”

      He smiled again, and it was far wickeder this time, and seemed to shoot off sparks inside of her that flipped into explosions and made her belly tighten around that same deep, low ache that she understood, now, only he could ease.

      “And what do I do when my vastly superior touch renders you a sobbing mess on my floor yet again, as it inevitably will?” he asked gently, his tone teasing. He traced a feather-light pattern along her cheek again, then over her lips, then down to her collarbone, bathing her in light. In yearning. “I am, in fact, that good.”

      It was, Miranda realized as she blinked back the heat behind her eyes, the nicest thing this man—any man—had ever done for her. Made her feel normal. Made her feel … unruined. As if she wasn’t damaged at all.

      “Do I have to beg you to prove it?” she asked, her voice catching.

      “I believe I told you that one day, you would.”

      “I don’t know how to beg,” she said, her pulse rocketing in her veins as his dark gaze moved to her mouth. “I was hoping you could teach me that, too.”

      “Miranda, Miranda.” He sighed. “You are far too educated already.”

      And then, finally, finally, he took control.

      He simply picked her up. He slid his hands beneath her arms and lifted her, settling her astride his lap. He was so strong. She watched the play of his muscles, the sheer power he demonstrated so casually, and knew that when she began to tremble this time, it was not from fear.

      He gazed up at her for a brief, searing moment, and then he claimed her mouth.

      And this time, the fire roared. It swept through Miranda, making her melt and burn and melt again. She collapsed against the hard wall of his glorious chest, and sighed at the searing friction they made. And it wasn’t close enough.

      She felt desperate, needy, and rocked herself against the hard proof of his desire until he groaned. He tangled one hand in her hair to hold her head precisely where he wanted it, and moved to press kisses along her cheek, her neck, then pulled back to reach between them and, in a single sweep of his arm, tug her dress up and over her head.

      Miranda was sure her heartbeat was loud enough to drown out the world. She couldn’t seem to do more than catch shallow breaths, and everything seemed to stop as Ivan stared down at her, as if mesmerized by what he’d uncovered. She felt that low ache inside of her pull tight, and shuddered, so much closer to that wild oblivion he’d showed her than should have been possible.

      “Ti takaya krasivaya,” he muttered, in reverent tones, and then he pressed his mouth to the hollow between her breasts, where the cups of her pale blue bra met in a delicate bow. “You’re beautiful. Perfect.”

      And in that moment, she believed him.

      Miranda arched against him, into him. Her blood seemed to sing inside of her, her head spun, and she was only dimly aware of the way he held her with one arm and even so, managed to unclasp her bra. She helped as he pulled it from her arms and tossed it aside. But she knew nothing else when he fastened his dangerous mouth to one taut nipple, pulling it into all of that wicked heat.

      He started to speak in Russian, a low, rough music to her ears, as he worked a trail of bright, hot fire from one breast to the other. Then back. As if she was some kind of candy, and he wanted to lick up every last bit of it. She felt the pull of his mouth in her pulse, in her fingers, and like a hungry blaze between her legs.

      He moved without warning, shifting them around so that she lay on her back and he was stretched out above her, and for a moment he paused there, suspended on his hands, and Miranda could see the passion etched hard into his features. It made him look stark. Fierce. She thought he was beautiful, too.

      “This time,” he said, “when you scream, remember that I am right here.”

      She couldn’t speak. She could only nod, and then her heart flipped in her chest when he leaned down to kiss her sweetly.

      But it was only the one kiss, and then he turned back to her breasts. He tested their shape in his hands, with his mouth. He licked her until she writhed beneath him, and then he reached down between them and simply held the heat of her in his hand. She bucked against him, dazed with this madness, this sweet, impossible insanity.

      “Ivan—” Her voice was cracked. Crazed.

      And he ignored her anyway. He used his teeth against one sensitive peak, a gentle if deliberate scrape, while at the same time he pressed his palm hard against the core of her, and once again, Miranda flew apart in a great, shuddering tornado of bliss.

      When she came back to herself, he was naked, and so was she. It took one breath to realize that, and another to comprehend that he had settled himself between her legs, the head of him teasing her entrance.

      She didn’t have time to be afraid. She didn’t have time to throw herself across the room again, or cry. He was so big, so hot, and there was that ruthlessness of his that made her weak. It made her want to melt all around him. It made her want with parts of herself she’d never known before.

      He braced himself on one hand and slid the other around to lift her bottom closer to him. One more breath, ragged and wild. His dark gaze on hers, formidable and dangerous, even now. Especially now.

      “I don’t want to be ruined,” she whispered.

      “There is more than one kind of ruin,” he said in a gruff, thrilling voice that made her want to bask in him like sunlight. “This is the good kind.”

      And then he slid into her in one slick, devastating thrust.

      She went wild beneath him, and the feel of it, her silky limbs wrapped around him, her soft skin flushed from his mouth and hot to the touch, almost did him in. She arched against him, pressing that lithe body of hers to his in a glorious stretch, and it took everything he had to keep from losing himself there and then.

      If he was a good man, a sensitive man, he would love her softly. Sweetly. Make her come around him again and again,