One Kiss in... Moscow: Kholodov's Last Mistress / The Man She Shouldn't Crave / Strangers When We Meet. Кейт Хьюит
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didn’t know whether to be offended or gratified. ‘Maybe I do this sort of thing all the time,’ she said, and Sergei stepped closer to her.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t.’
He took another step closer and she breathed in that tangy scent of his aftershave that she still remembered from so long ago. He reached up and tucked a tendril of hair behind one ear, the touch of his fingers to her skin electric, causing her to shiver as if he’d actually shocked her. Sergei smiled and Hannah knew there was nothing she could do to keep him from knowing how much he affected her. How much she wanted him.
She finally spoke, trying to keep her tone light. Keep this whole thing light. ‘What, do you think you’re special or something?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘but you are.’
She hadn’t expected that. Suddenly she felt the sting of tears behind her lids. Her emotions were see-sawing crazily, going from anger to sadness to something deeper than either, and over all of it this consuming need. ‘Sergei—’
‘Shh.’ His hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs smoothing the line of her jawbone, his gaze steady and intent. It felt as if he were staring right into her soul. ‘I never stopped,’ he said softly, and then he bent his head and kissed her.
She’d expected something passionate, hard and demanding, purely physical. She’d convinced herself that that was all there was between them, all there ever could be. Yet Sergei’s kiss was so very soft, his lips as gentle as a butterfly’s brush against her mouth, and as sweet as nectar. How could such a cold, hard man be so achingly gentle?
She stilled under that kiss, let his lips move softly over hers, nudging her own apart. I never stopped. Was he telling her the truth, that he’d never stopped desiring her? This kiss felt as if he was. It was so amazingly tender, so heart-wrenchingly wonderful, so surprising. Her mouth opened under his and his tongue slipped inside, touching the tip of hers gently, a question.
A question she could only answer with a most resounding yes.
Her arms came up around him, revelling in the feel of his hard strength pressed against her. He deepened the kiss, his mouth taking such sure and yet tender possession of hers. His other hand curved around her hip and pulled her closer, moulding her body intimately to his. His mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, the tender curve of her shoulder, his tongue flicking along her skin, teasing and tempting. She gasped aloud as the sensations raced along her nerve endings, pooled inside her.
His mouth left her skin only for him to say one word. ‘Please.’
Her mind spinning, her body on sensory overload, Hannah didn’t realise what he was asking until he tugged her hand and led her to the bed. His eyes blazed into hers as he stood in front of her, the only sound the crackling of the flames.
With one sinuous tug he pulled the zip down the back of her dress and, already rather loose, it slithered off her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She stood there in only her bra and panties, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the fire, the heat of Sergei’s gaze. She had an okay figure, but she knew it was nothing special. No huge boobs or tiny waist. And Sergei had probably been with supermodels …
Hannah swallowed. And shivered some more.
He touched her shoulder, his hand warm as it slid over her skin. ‘Don’t. Don’t be ashamed. Or afraid.’
‘I know I’m not like—’
‘No,’ he told her. ‘You’re better.’
She swallowed again. Nodded, because she believed him. Matthew had never told her she was beautiful. He’d never said much at all, because their meetings—Hannah couldn’t even call them dates—had been so rushed, even furtive. And it was only later—too late—that she discovered why. To her own lasting shame and pain.
She pushed the thoughts away, not wanting to allow them to dim the perfection of what shimmered and pulsed between her and Sergei now. For this moment felt perfect … even if that was all it was or ever could be. A moment. A night.
Her hands trembled just a little bit as she lifted them to Sergei’s shirt. She didn’t think they were steady enough to undo his buttons. Sergei shrugged out of his blazer, tossed it to a chair. The movement was sinuously graceful, unbearably elegant. Hannah let her hands smooth the silk of his shirt over his shoulders. He had amazing shoulders, bunched with muscle, unbelievably wide. She could feel the heat of his skin through the silk.
Sergei reached behind her and pulled down the duvet. Then in one fluid movement he scooped Hannah up and laid her down gently on the bed. She lay there, watching him. His eyes had gone dark, almost navy as he gazed at her and unbuttoned his shirt so she could see—actually see—the hard beat of his heart, the desperate intake of breath. He was as physically affected as she was.
Sergei shrugged out of his shirt, and then his trousers and boxers quickly followed. Hannah stared at him, the sheer masculine power and beauty of his hard, honed body, his skin glowing in the firelight, and then she gasped in surprise for even in the flickering firelight she could see scars. Too many scars.
His body was a map of sorrows.
Sergei stilled, averting his face from her, his body tensing. ‘You’re shocked,’ he said quietly. Flatly. As if he’d encountered such shock and perhaps even revulsion before.
Hannah shook her head. She was shocked, but more than that. ‘Sad,’ she whispered. ‘For you.’ She did not ask what had happened, or how Sergei had received so many different scars on his body. The small round red marks that dotted one forearm looked, she feared, like cigarette burns. There had to be at least twenty of them. A long, livid line ran from his right shoulder to his hip, ragged and red. And there were other scars, of different lengths and depths, all of them livid reminders that this man had so many secrets, had seen too much pain. No wonder he was so cynical.
Hannah opened her arms.
Sergei’s face contorted, and Hannah couldn’t tell what emotion held him in its painful thrall. Anger, sadness, regret? Perhaps just acceptance. He slid into bed next to her and pulled her into his arms, burying his head in her shoulder.
And Hannah knew this wasn’t going to be what she’d thought. It wasn’t going to be a night of passion, a simple satiation of the physical craving they’d both been feeling. At least, it wasn’t going to be that for her.
Already it was more. Already it was incredibly intense, intimate, and scary in a whole new way.
She let her hands drift down Sergei’s back, stroking his skin, drawing him closer. He pulled away from her to look at her, his expression both fierce and gentle. A man of contradictions, of secrets, of sorrows. Hannah touched his cheek, and Sergei kissed her, deeply this time, obliterating thought, doubt, fear.
She kissed him back, surrendering to the feel of his mouth and hands, to the pleasure and pressure building inside her. Closed her eyes as he bent his head to her body, making her feel more treasured than ever. Her hands fisted in her hair and she twisted on the sheets, longing for more, for the release and satisfaction she knew they were both craving.
He kissed her everywhere, lips lingering, savouring as he moved his mouth over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She felt as if he was learning her body, memorising it and revering it at the same time. And when she could take no more she pushed him onto his back and started to learn his, letting her hands drift over the sleek skin, hard muscle. Even with the scars, he was a beautiful man, his body honed to perfection.
She saw besides the scars he also had two tattoos: a small, ornate crucifix on his chest, three little spires like those of St Basil’s on the back of his shoulder. They intrigued her, made her realise how little she knew him. How much she wanted to. She laid her lips to his body, learning him the only way she could.
Sergei resisted her touch, pushing her hand away when her fingertips brushed his scar. Hannah wouldn’t let him. Some deep, instinctive need made her want to touch him,