Taken by the Russian

Oh, who are you kidding? You beg your subconscious for those dreams.

My nipples turn to spikes beneath my tank top just thinking about the last one. When I joined Sasha inside that foggy shower and he forced that hard part of himself between my lips, grunting my name and wrapping my hair in fists. Thrusting.

Have I been crazy thinking he could crave that — crave me — in real life? Sometimes I swear I sense torment and restraint in him, but he locks it down so fast I think I imagined it. Well, I’ve had quite enough of living in such close quarters with the man haunting my dreams and turning me into a walking, talking horn dog. It hurts. Physically and mentally. Not to mention, the second – guessing of my own sanity is starting to drive me crazy.

Not that I’d let him know that.

Memories of Sasha’s rough hands tying my bathing suit strings yesterday makes my movements provocative as I sway closer to him, inserting myself between him and the trunk, letting my fingers walk up the center of his formidable chest. “You won’t miss me even a little bit?”

Eyes flaring, he catches my wrist. “Do not play games with me, Anya.”

The breath catches in my lungs, heat rushing to my cheeks. Rushing to every part of me. What if I never get another chance to figure out if I imagined the pull between us? I’m going to college today. Even if he tells me I’m crazy and he could never be attracted to a girl he raised from such a young age — a girl he taught to drive, taught to throw a punch — I won’t have to see him every day while living with the knowledge.

The reality of not seeing him sends panic and pain slicing into my middle. And it’s the pain that knocks the words free of my mouth. “I’ve tried to play games,” I blurt out, thinking of all my silly attempts to tempt him. “You won’t play them back.”

Gray eyes narrow, and I sense a debate taking place. I’m so focused on watching him for a sign of what he’s thinking, I suck in a breath when he releases my wrist…and steps forward, pressing me back against the trunk. Traps me there. My neck is forced to crane to keep eye contact, and he looms, so massive and unmoving above me, but his dominance only makes my nerve endings go wilder. “Nothing about us, little angel, is a game. I will not miss you, because I never intend to leave you.” His hand slides beneath my skirt and cups my right cheek, kneading it, stealing the power from my knees. Making my mind reel. “This is mine. Now go put it in the passenger seat, before your father sees me defiling you from the window. It wouldn’t stop my plans, but it might delay us.” He slaps my backside, growling deep in his throat. “And you know I hate being late.”

I’m left with my mouth agape, staring into space as Sasha rounds the car and climbs into the driver’s side, starting the engine.

What in the world just happened?

Chapter Two

Sasha

My Anya does not like puzzles.

She fidgets now in the passenger seat like a bird in its nest, unable to get comfortable. Which means I cannot settle, either, because her comfort is my calling. I do find the way she huffs and peeks over at me from beneath her eyelashes rather adorable, however, so I’ve decided to let it continue a little longer. She will have the information she seeks soon enough.

Revealing my intention to keep Anya was not part of my plan, but I’m a man at the end of his tether. My notorious patience is thinning with every mile I drive. Keeping myself restrained around this girl was never easy, but now that I can see light at the end of the tunnel, I find my desperation to claim Anya growing stronger by the second. To a level of hunger I never knew existed and doubt I’ll ever extinguish.

Her palms travel down her bare thighs then back up. A nervous gesture, but that doesn’t stop it from hardening my dick. When I make her my wife, I will allow the skirts. But I will take her wearing these tiny creations as a signal she wants to be fucked until they’re soaked straight through with my cum. Then she can decide if she still wants to wear them in public.

If I want to make it to our destination, I must cease these thoughts, but I know from experience that it’s impossible. She is my obsession and has been such for longer than I would admit to a court of law. Quitting breathing would be easier than stopping my thoughts of her beneath me. Finally. Her virgin blood staining the sheets of our bed.