Page 267 of Ashen Torment

“Tell me to stop.”

He presses his thigh against mine with a touch that makes me shudder.

“Dorian—”

“Skazhi mne, chyort vozmi.”

A low sound betrays me.

My hand reaches out, uncertain, toward him.

“Tell me, damn it.” He insists, his voice vibrating with impatience.

I close my eyes again, but his bite on my lower lip forces them open. He stares at me, the fire in his eyes distracting me.

“Tell me, or I won’t stop.”

“Dorian.”

“Ty ponyal? Do you understand what I’m going to do to you?”

“Dorian.”

“Evander.”

“Don’t stop.”

36

Dusha

Dorian

Ipin him against the sheets, blocking his every move. His heart thrashes against my sternum with a frantic rhythm, he is burning so obscenely that the final trace of my control shatters against the reality of his skin. His hands seize the edge of the mattress as he tries to pull closer to me, arching his back as if he wants to swallow me whole.

There is nothing I desire more.

His scent intoxicates me, derailing my senses. I do not look away from his eyes, and while I hold his gaze, I slide slowly toward his feet. The first black boot yields beneath my fingers with a sharp snap, the sound echoes through the room in time with his ragged gasps.

“Hurry...”

He lies supine, black hair scattered across the pillow, cheeks flushed and lips parted.

The sight of him so exposed—so extraordinarily fragile and stubborn all at once—makes my lower belly throb uncontrollably.

With a swift motion, the second boot slides off. I lean down, bringing my chin close to his knee, and feel the subtle tremor running the length of his thigh.

“Viscount...” I lean over him, my hands brushing the fabric of his waistcoat, tracing every seam, every fold, with deliberate slowness.

My eyes remain anchored to his, watching his every flinch. When the waistcoat finally slides away, my hands move to his shirt. He furrows his brow, and with an impatient movement, he grabs my cravat and rips it from my throat.

“Why are you so slow?”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” I retort, letting the shirt slip slowly from his shoulders.

Evander seizes the fabric of my own shirt and pulls it from my shoulders.

“You do not need to treat me like a virgin.”