Page 54 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

The rough stubble scraped my skin, sparking tiny shivers. I flinched, clutching the fabric of his shirt at his back.

"Ivan, we can't do this."

"Why the hell not?"

His voice was low, the end of it dissolving into his breath. When his lips closed around my earlobe, my whole body jolted. My palm pressed against his back, fingers curling and uncurling, like lightning had split down my spine.

"So sensitive, huh?" He laughed softly, the calluses on his palm dragging along my waist. "No one else has touched you these past few years, have they?"

I didn't want to talk. Didn't want to admit it.

Felt like admitting defeat.

His smile deepened, the rumble in his chest traveling through our pressed skin like a big cat purring.

I turned my head to dodge him, but he caught my knee, holding it down as he looked at me. Those slate-blue eyes churned with something I couldn't read—like tempered ice.

"Look at me, Anna." His voice dropped, fingers tracing up my spine, pressing each vertebra until I went numb. "Remember who's touching you right now."

I was forced to tilt my head back. His kiss fell just as the neon lights from outside swept across the room, glancing off his jacket draped over the headboard.

My heart skipped.

I didn't want to admit it, but my body, my heart, had never forgotten this man.

He was like a rusted nail lodged between my bones for five years. I thought time had worn it smooth, but the second he touched me, the pain came roaring back.

His lips moved down, blazing a trail across my collarbone, between my breasts, lower still. He kissed like he was mapping me, relearning every curve, every hollow. His hands followed, rough palms skimming my ribs, my hips, spreading my thighs. The scrape of his stubble left faint heat in its wake, a deliberate contrast to the soft press of his mouth. Every place he touchedseemed to wake under him, skin tightening, nerves sparking as if they had been waiting years for this exact path.

"Still so damn perfect," he muttered against my stomach.

The words vibrated through me. I could feel the shape of them against my skin, the low gravel of his voice sinking deeper than the kisses themselves. My breath hitched. His mouth kept moving, lower, and when his tongue dragged along the inside of my thigh, I gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. The strands were thicker than I remembered, or maybe my hands were simply greedier now, clutching as if I could keep him from disappearing again.

"Ivan."

He didn't answer. Just kept going, deliberate and relentless, until I couldn't think straight. My back arched off the bed, and his hands gripped my hips, holding me in place. The strength in those hands was familiar and new at the same time—calluses I had once traced in the dark, the same firm pressure that used to pin me open when we were younger and less careful. He licked a slow stripe higher, then another, circling without giving me what I already needed. The wet heat of his mouth left glistening paths that cooled in the air, making me shiver even as my core pulsed harder.

It felt like that first time all over again—overwhelming, inescapable. The same helpless spiral, the same sense that the rest of the world had narrowed to the space between his shoulders and the mattress. I could hear my own breathing, ragged and too loud. I could smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with clean sweat and the deeper, warmer scent of him that no amount of time had erased from my memory. His tongue finally found me, flat and slow, and a broken sound tore out of my throat before I could stop it. He hummed against me in answer, the vibration traveling straight up my spine.

He worked me with the same focused intensity he used to bring to everything that mattered—slow circles, then firmer pressure, then the softest suction that made my thighs tremble against his ears. One of his hands left my hip only long enough to slide two fingers through my wetness, testing, teasing, before pressing inside. The stretch was perfect, familiar, and still enough to make my head tip back against the pillow. He curled them just right, finding the spot that always undid me, while his mouth stayed relentless on my clit. I was already climbing too fast, hips trying to rock against his face even though he held me down.

But just as he positioned himself, just as the heat of him pressed against me, my brain snapped back online.

"Wait." I pressed my hand against his chest. The solid plane of muscle under my palm was hotter than the rest of the room, rising and falling with controlled breaths that did not match the dark hunger in his eyes. "What about Victoria?"

He froze.

The entire room seemed to hold still with him. His cock rested heavy and thick against my entrance, the blunt head slick with both of us, but he did not push. His gaze locked on mine, something sharp and wounded flashing there before it hardened.

"You two got remarried, didn't you?"

His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with something dangerous. "We didn't remarry."

The denial was immediate, almost harsh. I could see the muscle jump along his cheek, the way his nostrils flared as he fought whatever storm was moving behind those eyes.

"But—"

"There is no Victoria," he growled, his hand gripping my thigh harder. The fingers dug in just shy of pain, possessive, claiming. "There's only you."