Page 154 of Cruel Demands

Taylor studies me for a second, then takes my wrist and deliberately puts my hand back against her head. The permission almost destroys me.

I curl my fingers gently into her hair while she continues, fighting the instinct to guide her, to thrust, to take. Eventually I cannot stand it anymore. “Come here.”

She releases me and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

I pull her upward and kiss her before she can complain further. I position myself between her thighs. The first press of my cock against her makes her inhale sharply. The first stroke draws a moan from her throat. The second makes her grip my shoulder.

By the third, I can feel her anger transforming into lust beneath me. She bites my shoulder when I move deeper. Pain flashes. Pleasure follows. I groan against her neck.

“You like that,” she whispers.

“Yes.”

“So do I.”

She bites me again. I lose the last clean edge of control. My hand slides beneath her knee, lifting her leg higher. I thrust into her with more force, watching her face for any sign that I have crossed the line.

Her eyes close.

“No,” I say. They open. “Look at me.”

She does. I want her to see exactly what she does to me. I want no mask between us. Her body tightens around mine.

“Mikhail.”

“I have you.”

She shudders as I lower my forehead to hers and move faster, holding her close enough that there is no space left between us. Her nails rake my back. Her breath breaks against my mouth. When she comes, she groans my name against my lips, turning it into a kiss. I follow moments later, burying my face against her throat as pleasure strips me of every defense.

For a while, there is only warmth, breath, and the relief of being allowed near her again. Afterward, she lies against my chest beneath the blankets. My hand returns to her stomach almost unconsciously. She does not object.

The room is dark. I should let the quiet remain. Instead, I ask the question that has been waiting behind every other thought. “Are you afraid of what kind of father I will be?”

Taylor lifts her head. In the darkness, I can barely see her face. She takes a breath. “I’m afraid of you as a man,” she says. “The father part I haven’t decided yet.”

Once, I would have enjoyed those words. There was a time when her fear pleased something dark and possessive inside me. It proved that she understood my power. That she knew I could overwhelm her and chose to remain near me anyway.

Now I hear only the door closing. I hear her searching for flights. I feel her step backward when I stand.

My hand leaves her stomach. Taylor catches it before I can move away completely. I stare into the darkness above us.

“Go to sleep, Mikhail. I’m not going anywhere tonight,” she whispers.

Tonight.

40

TAYLOR

Seven months later, I am thirty-seven weeks pregnant and awake at two in the morning because I need pancakes.

Not tomorrow morning. Not after the sun comes up. I try to ignore the craving and go back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. The baby in my body is screaming at me that they need pancakes. Tears wobble in my eyes. I try to calm myself. This is ridiculous, Taylor. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just a craving. But I feel a hot tear spill over and down my cheek.

Mikhail is asleep beside me on his back, one arm beneath his head and the other resting across my waist. For a man who controls nearly every waking movement around him, he sleeps with offensive calm.

I try to stay quiet, crushing my face into the pillow, but beside me Mikhail wakes anyway. “What is wrong?” The question is sharp enough to summon armed men through the walls.