Page 39 of Hate You Most

“Fuck you.” She shoved Dakota away, only to grab the collar of her T-shirt and pull her back into a rough kiss. When they finally broke apart, Viktoriya pressed a trail of kisses along the side of her neck. “I can't stay away,” she whispered. “It is impossible.”

The rational part of her brain was screaming at her, but the eager part of her needed this too loudly.

“I know somewhere we can go,” Dakota said and nodded back toward the hotel room.

Viktoriya caught on quickly. “I am not fucking you for the last time in a hotel room with paper thin walls, everyone could hear. Not happening.”

“Shit, okay,” Dakota laughed. “I might have an idea, then.”

February 21st, 2014.

— Winter Olympics practice rink. Sochi, Russia, early morning.

Her eyes were closed, head tilted back.

The cold bit into Viktoriya's spine as her back pressed against the ice, but she barely felt it. All she cared about was Dakota—the deliberate pressure of her fingers as they moved inside her with a confidence that made Viktoriya's breath catch.

“Look at me,” Dakota said in a low tone. It was commanding. The kind of tone Dakota used when she wanted something, and right now, she wanted Viktoriya's full attention.

Viktoriya forced her eyes open.

Above her, Dakota's face was drenched in a half-shadow, the blue rink lights catching the sharp line of her jaw, dark hair falling into her face. She breathed out with slightly parted lips.

“That's better,” Dakota murmured and curled her fingers in a way that made Viktoriya's hips jerk involuntarily. “You're doing so good. You're so good.”

A moan escaped Viktoriya's lips before she could stop it, the sound echoing off the walls of the empty rink. The rows of empty seats stretched out around them like an invisible audience. Somewhere beyond the walls, security guards patrolled the Olympic Village. If anyone decided to check the practice rink—if anyone walked through those doors⁠—

Dakota pressed deeper, and the thought dissolved in her mind. She needed Dakota in that moment more than she needed anything else in the world.

“Don't think about anything else,” Dakota said, as if she could read the flicker of fear in Viktoriya's mind. Her free hand came up to grip Viktoriya's chin, tilting her face so their eyes met again. “Just me and just this. You understand?”

Viktoriya nodded, her fingers scraping uselessly against the smooth ice beneath her. She had relinquished all control. Dakota had positioned her exactly where she wanted her—sprawled out on the cold surface of the rink they'd both trained on, vulnerable in a way she hadn't allowed herself to be with anyone else.

On the ice, Viktoriya Volkova was untouchable. A two-time world champion. An Olympic gold medalist, as of yesterday. The pride of Russia and the darling of her federation. But with Dakota, she was something else entirely.

She was a shaking and incoherent mess of moans that could hardly be understood. She was herself in every way the world couldn't handle.

Dakota shifted her weight, her thigh pressing between Viktoriya's bare legs as she lowered her mouth to the sensitive skin just below her ear. “You're shaking,” she whispered, and Viktoriya could hear the smile in her voice. “Is it the cold? Or is it me?”

“You know the answer already,” Viktoriya managed, her accent thickening the way it always did when she was like this—undone and utterly desperate. She was needy and she wasn't going to apologize for that, because she so rarely got what she wanted.

“I want to hear you say it.” Dakota said. Her teeth softly bit down on Viktoriya's earlobe. It made her back arch off the ice.

“You,” she gasped. “It's you. It's always—” The words morphed into a sharp inhale as Dakota's fingers found a rhythm that made any coherent thought impossible. Viktoriya tried to remember if there had ever been a feeling as good. Winning gold at the Olympics didn't even come close.

Her hands flew up to grip Dakota's shoulders, her nails digging into her bare skin.

Dakota wore a black top and her pants, while Viktoriya still had her jacket on, her legs bare beneath it.

Viktoriya knew that this wasn't careful. This wasn't safe, this was reckless and desperate and everything they'd promised each other they wouldn't do again. She somehow always found herself with Dakota, no matter how many times she told herself she wouldn't. She just couldn't quit coming back to her. Maybe this was what being addicted to drugs or alcohol felt like. Dakota was her drug, euphoric and addictive.

Dakota kissed down the length of her throat, tracing the path of Viktoriya's racing pulse. When she reached her collarbone she pushed aside her T-shirt and bit down gently. Viktoriya had to press her own hand over her mouth to muffle the sound that escaped her.

“No,” Dakota said, pulling Volkova's hand away and pinning her wrist to the ice. “I want to hear you.”

“Someone could⁠—”

“I want to hear you,” she repeated.