I’ve read her posts. I’ve followed her and watched her laugh. Seen her glance over her shoulder, aware that someone is behind her but unable to see me in the shadows.
I know what she likes.
And yet, watching from afar has had to be enough. I never allowed myself to think I’d get to chase her.
I certainly didn’t imagine I’d be conflicted about whether I want to allow her to get away.
It’s that paradox that holds me motionless for long seconds as she spins on her heel and runs from me. I want to catch her, of course I do. I need to keep her safe from my ravenous desires and her own dubious decisions. But if I grab her as quickly as the beast inside me is tearing my chest apart to do, I won’t get to kiss her.
So it’s a delicate balance, attempting to give her a fair chance—give us a possibility of having that kiss—and also watching her for signs that she’s too vulnerable to be making genuine choices.
That dress seemed so sweet and demure last night, but the skirt flicks up as she runs, and her feet are sensual in a way I hadn’t imagined. So breakable.
She reaches the end of the corridor and disappears in a swish of fabric.
Then I’m running after her, intent on my prey but unclear on my aim. Just that I must be able to see her. The house is close to sixty yards, in a square around a courtyard. Far enough to test whether she is as well as she says she is. I accelerate, closing the distance between her and me.
I’m not used to sprints, or running with the distraction of a beautiful girl ahead of me and an erection tenting my trousers. I turn the corner, and there she is, ahead, and the relief is almost painful.
I must have her in my arms, and I need to be right behind her. If she stumbles, I want to be catching her before she can hit the ground.
She’s fast though. As she rounds the next corner of the corridor, she catches the wall with her hand to swing and glances over her shoulder, eyes widening as she takes me in.
I’m closer than she expects.
This section of the house is old, all gleaming dark wood and green wall hangings left over from years ago when women in enormous dresses would walk up and down to exercise themselves in bad weather. The pale light of late morning from the windows flickers onto Jenna like a strobe as she races down, each pane of glass highlighting her in turn. She’s more compelling than any picture. Vibrant, and running far more quickly and determinedly than I expected.
I love that she’s making me work for it.
And I’m so relieved I could burst out of these clothes that she hasn’t tried to hide or escape. That naive trust spurs me on, forcing me to push my muscles to run faster. My suit isn’t the best for this activity, these formal shoes I had on for blending in as a businessman while stalking her date aren’t as grippy as her bare feet. But I make up for lack of appropriate attire with utter determination.
At the third corner of the square that makes up the house, I’m within touching distance, and she knows it. She doesn’t look around. All her energy is focused on keeping ahead.
There’s the harsh echo of our footsteps, mine heavy, hers light. There might be carpet down these hallways, but the sound still reverberates oddly, like the mansion is complaining about our savage game in its formal old stone surroundings.
I should stop her before she could hurt herself. Jenna was in bed just minutes ago and could be weak after being drugged. But I don’t snatch her up and carry her to rest safely, as I should.
No, I continue to chase her, right on her heels, making a threatening sound at the back of my throat.
She squeaks in response, and dodges away. Her hair flies out behind her, silken blonde strands that beg to be gathered into my fist and used to hold her.
I want to own her. Possess her.
As we round the last corner and we’ve returned to the fourth side of the building where we started this game, I realise I’ve made my decision. Or rather, she’s proven to me, as she said she would.
A little rabbit she might be, but she’s strong, determined, and she knows what she wants.
I’m going to let her have it, trust that she won’t regret this.
Even so, it has to be on my terms.
I snatch her up as we reach the door to my bedroom, pulling her into my arms.
“No, no, I made it!” She fights me, trying to get past. “I won!”
“You did, zayka,” I tell her, but I don’t let go. “You win.”
But she doesn’t stop. I trap her against the wall, her slight body held firm even as she tries to wriggle away.
“Nyet.” The guttural Russian word is harsh.
I jam my thigh between hers and my erection rams into one side of her soft belly. That probably hurts, because I’m that hard. I grind into her, and she whimpers.
“You aren’t going into the bedroom to have your kiss, you little siren.” That would be a temptation too far. I don’t trust myself to hold back if she is in a bed, writhing under me. It’s bad enough here.
She makes a sound of dissent and shifts, her hands greedy on my shoulders, dragging me to her.
I will savour this slowly and with control, even if I have to enforce that on both of us.
Snatching her wrist, I pin it above her head. Her other hand flutters, and I catch it, so she’s stretched up, fully exposed to me. As though she knows I won’t stop, she makes only a token resistance.
“I won?” She slows her movements, realising she’s trapped.
“You did. Ready for your first kiss?” I ask, and my heart slams against my ribcage, a wild beast desperate to get out. I’m not sure what I’ll do if she says no.
“I passed the test then.” Her green eyes light like sunshine through a tree canopy on a summer’s day.
“If you say you want a kiss, I’ll believe you.” I wait with bated breath.
“Yes.” Her eyeline drops to my lips and holds there. “You chased me and caught me. I want my first kiss.”
“Fuck,” I groan. This woman will be the death of me. She couldn’t be any more arousing if she tried, and I really don’t think she is.
I suspect she’s guileless, just saying what’s in her heart, not realising that this game will break my mine.
Allowing her to feel more of my weight pressed close, I bring her wrists together. I grip them both in one hand, and touch the fingertips of the other to her jaw. Then, stroking slowly to her chin, I tip her face up. Her pink, bow lips drop open.
“So pretty,” I murmur. “You’ve really never been kissed before?”
She shakes her head, and forms the word, “No.”
It creates a perfect little pout.
An invitation I can’t resist. Bowing my head, I bring our mouths closer, almost touching. Sharing breaths and feeling the tension between us. I savour the moment. I linger, brushing my lips close to hers.
“Voronov…”
I’d take every first this innocent beauty gave me. All of them, if she let me. Introduce her to the pleasures of life. Heart-pounding, spine tingling, delicious.
Sweet.
Because as I allow my mouth to finally meet hers, it’s gentle and soft, in contrast to how I caught her and how I’m holding her, uncompromisingly tight. I give her as tender a kiss as a new lover.
I tease and stroke. I delight in a kiss that’s innocent, then delve deeper. I lick over the seam of her lips, and she opens, allowing me in.
I take it slow. Not a shocking demand as my body wants, or a possessive grasp as my heart yearns for. No, I allow her all the honey-slow time she needs to understand her reactions and mine, and to feel the wet slide of how we’ll fit together in other ways. Not just my tongue in her mouth, but my hardness where she’s soft. And she responds with a moan from the back of her throat and softening, yielding to me.
She shifts on the thigh I’ve forced between her legs. Not trying to get away, but as though she’s attempting to close the non-existent distance between us. She moves back and forth like an eight pattern, never far from me as our lips go from first kiss to filthy, open-mouthed desires.
My hand tightens on her wrists, and she rubs against me faster and with more intent, losing her inhibitions.
My brain futzes out like a streamed movie with spotty Wi-Fi. She’s grinding against my thigh.
She’s really, really getting off on our kiss. I open my eyes and this close, she’s impossible to focus on, but she’s real. This is happening.
The woman I’ve been stalking is rubbing her clit against me. And while in all conscience I can’t take what I most want—the virginity I’m certain she still has—I can be what she needs right now.
If my girl needs to get off?
I’ll be everything she desires.
But I’m not letting her get away without admitting it.
