The Mistresses Collection. Оливия Гейтс

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      “Miranda, Miranda.” He sighed. “You are far too educated already.”

      And then, finally, finally, he took control.

      He simply picked her up. He slid his hands beneath her arms and lifted her, settling her astride his lap. He was so strong. She watched the play of his muscles, the sheer power he demonstrated so casually, and knew that when she began to tremble this time, it was not from fear.

      He gazed up at her for a brief, searing moment, and then he claimed her mouth.

      And this time, the fire roared. It swept through Miranda, making her melt and burn and melt again. She collapsed against the hard wall of his glorious chest, and sighed at the searing friction they made. And it wasn’t close enough.

      She felt desperate, needy, and rocked herself against the hard proof of his desire until he groaned. He tangled one hand in her hair to hold her head precisely where he wanted it, and moved to press kisses along her cheek, her neck, then pulled back to reach between them and, in a single sweep of his arm, tug her dress up and over her head.

      Miranda was sure her heartbeat was loud enough to drown out the world. She couldn’t seem to do more than catch shallow breaths, and everything seemed to stop as Ivan stared down at her, as if mesmerized by what he’d uncovered. She felt that low ache inside of her pull tight, and shuddered, so much closer to that wild oblivion he’d showed her than should have been possible.

      “Ti takaya krasivaya,” he muttered, in reverent tones, and then he pressed his mouth to the hollow between her breasts, where the cups of her pale blue bra met in a delicate bow. “You’re beautiful. Perfect.”

      And in that moment, she believed him.

      Miranda arched against him, into him. Her blood seemed to sing inside of her, her head spun, and she was only dimly aware of the way he held her with one arm and even so, managed to unclasp her bra. She helped as he pulled it from her arms and tossed it aside. But she knew nothing else when he fastened his dangerous mouth to one taut nipple, pulling it into all of that wicked heat.

      He started to speak in Russian, a low, rough music to her ears, as he worked a trail of bright, hot fire from one breast to the other. Then back. As if she was some kind of candy, and he wanted to lick up every last bit of it. She felt the pull of his mouth in her pulse, in her fingers, and like a hungry blaze between her legs.

      He moved without warning, shifting them around so that she lay on her back and he was stretched out above her, and for a moment he paused there, suspended on his hands, and Miranda could see the passion etched hard into his features. It made him look stark. Fierce. She thought he was beautiful, too.

      “This time,” he said, “when you scream, remember that I am right here.”

      She couldn’t speak. She could only nod, and then her heart flipped in her chest when he leaned down to kiss her sweetly.

      But it was only the one kiss, and then he turned back to her breasts. He tested their shape in his hands, with his mouth. He licked her until she writhed beneath him, and then he reached down between them and simply held the heat of her in his hand. She bucked against him, dazed with this madness, this sweet, impossible insanity.

      “Ivan—” Her voice was cracked. Crazed.

      And he ignored her anyway. He used his teeth against one sensitive peak, a gentle if deliberate scrape, while at the same time he pressed his palm hard against the core of her, and once again, Miranda flew apart in a great, shuddering tornado of bliss.

      When she came back to herself, he was naked, and so was she. It took one breath to realize that, and another to comprehend that he had settled himself between her legs, the head of him teasing her entrance.

      She didn’t have time to be afraid. She didn’t have time to throw herself across the room again, or cry. He was so big, so hot, and there was that ruthlessness of his that made her weak. It made her want to melt all around him. It made her want with parts of herself she’d never known before.

      He braced himself on one hand and slid the other around to lift her bottom closer to him. One more breath, ragged and wild. His dark gaze on hers, formidable and dangerous, even now. Especially now.

      “I don’t want to be ruined,” she whispered.

      “There is more than one kind of ruin,” he said in a gruff, thrilling voice that made her want to bask in him like sunlight. “This is the good kind.”

      And then he slid into her in one slick, devastating thrust.

      She went wild beneath him, and the feel of it, her silky limbs wrapped around him, her soft skin flushed from his mouth and hot to the touch, almost did him in. She arched against him, pressing that lithe body of hers to his in a glorious stretch, and it took everything he had to keep from losing himself there and then.

      If he was a good man, a sensitive man, he would love her softly. Sweetly. Make her come around him again and again, languorous and endless.

      But he wasn’t that man, and anyway, she didn’t want the watered-down version of him. She wanted the real him. All of him. Ivan didn’t think she could know how that had exploded inside of him. What it meant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think about it himself. He bent his head to hers, burying his face in the sweet hollow of her neck and shoulder, and set the demanding rhythm his body craved.

      And she met it. Threw back her head and gloried in it.

      Which made him that much crazier.

      She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing those maddeningly perfect breasts into his chest. She nearly undid him. She was hot and soft and melting all around him, and he was desperate for her. For this.

      I will never get enough, he thought very distinctly.

      He heard her small, erotic moans in his ear and turned his head to capture that mouth of hers again.

      There were no games here, in this meeting of tongues and lips. As the fire that burned through them seared them both, reducing them both to nothing more than dancing flames. And still he moved in her, filled with her in ways he couldn’t begin to explore, mad with need, wild with delight at her perfect, slick fit.

      Mine, he thought when she grew taut against him, when her fingers dug into his skin and her eyes closed tight. Mine, he thought when he reached between them and found the center of desire, making her cry out his name before she hurtled once more over that cliff.

      All mine, he thought, when at last he followed her over the edge, her own name like an answered prayer on his lips.

      This was what shifting felt like, Miranda told herself the next morning, when she woke and realized there had been no nightmares. That he’d wiped them away, or helped her face them at long last. Or perhaps it was that she’d done the actual shifting some time ago, and this was what happened afterward. Either way, she was lost.

      Wholly, unutterably lost, but she couldn’t find it anywhere in her to mind. There was that little whisper of warning that moved in her, dark and distracting, but she didn’t listen to it. She couldn’t.

      There was only Ivan. At last.

      “I—” she’d begun in that heady rush of the forty-eight СКАЧАТЬ