Page 170 of Sexting the Pakhan

Her face tells me enough. Her eyes flutter. Her mouth softens. Her hips move slightly into her own touch, and the sound she makes is small enough that she could deny it later.

I lean closer. “That’s it.”

She shivers.

“Ruslan,” she says, half warning, half need.

That’s what breaks me.

I lower myself carefully, ignoring the pain in my leg, and go to my knees in front of her.

She looks down at me, startled. “You’re injured,” she says.

“I’m not using my leg.”

“That’s not how bodies work.”

“I’ll manage.”

Her laugh comes out shaky and breathless. “You’re insane.”

“Possibly.”

I place my hands on her hips.

Her hand slips from her waistband. For one second, I think she might push me away. Instead, she nods once.

Small. Clear. Enough.

I pull her closer and kiss her through the thin fabric first.

Her hand flies to my shoulder. “Ruslan,” she gasps.

“Tell me no,” I say against her.

She doesn’t.

I ease her clothes down just enough, slow enough for her to stop me. She doesn’t. Her fingers dig into my shoulder, then into my hair.

The first taste of her nearly destroys my control.

Six years of messages. Six years of wanting a woman without a face. Six years of wanting Zoya with every part of me I tried to cut out.

All of it is here.

She leans back against the table, one hand braced behind her, the other locked in my hair as I put my mouth on her properly.

Her hips jerk. I hold her steady.

She tries to stay quiet, but the sound breaks out of her anyway.

Soft. Desperate.

Mine.

I look up once. Her head is tipped back, eyes closed, lips parted, the morning light on her throat.

“Look at me,” I say.