It had been six months since Laszlo had shaken her gloved hand at her father’s funeral. Six months of telling himself to forget about her.
He had no appetite for other women, however. Sofia dominated his thoughts. When he gave in to temptation and looked at headlines and photos of her, he thought she appeared to have lost weight. She wasn’t his to be concerned about, but he was—despite having hundreds of concerns of his own.
He was on legitimate business to restructure his country’s economy, yet when he’d bumped into her, nothing had mattered beyond watching her mouth form words. The world held color again. He could taste and smell and feel his blood moving in his veins.
While she had been her most aloof, contained self.
That air of remoteness itched at him. He was definitely a man who was stimulated by challenge, but this was more than a desire to break through her walls and get a reaction. He was infatuated. Bordering on obsessed. He didn’t like it. It made him feel as though he had a flank open.
All the more reason to ignore her. Knowing she was so close had a fire bursting forth inside him.
When Igor asked tentatively, “Sir, should I—” he cut in with a firm yes.
He hated himself for the weakness, but passing her a key would put the decision in her hands. At least he would know if this grinding ache inside him was reciprocated.
He had his answer two hours later when he returned to his room and it was empty.
Good. He ordered food and poured himself a scotch, telling himself he was glad she had more sense than he did.
When the door lock hummed a few minutes later, he turned with his breath held.
Solntse. She still wore her crisp pencil skirt and matching jacket, still had her light brown hair up in its smooth twist. Her eyes were cool blue behind her glasses, but she brought light and warmth no matter where she went.
That was what he had felt when he’d run into her downstairs, the sensation of emerging from a cave into spring sunshine. A bright day suddenly filled with possibility.
She shut the door and leaned on it. The way her teeth tortured her bottom lip said, I’m weak. I hate myself for being here.
That was a shard of glass straight into his heart.
Perhaps they were the instrument of each other’s destruction. He set his drink aside and strode across the room to press her into that door.
She was the only thing that could have stopped him from making her his, and she didn’t. Aside from a small gasp of surprise, there was only welcome in the part of her lips and her soft moan of capitulation.
He thanked his lucky stars because he was starved for her. He devoured her mouth, drinking in the faint taste of coffee and the way her skin smelled of vanilla, like always. The most intoxicating thing about her, however, was the way she pressed her pelvis into his.
Whatever she was wearing was too much. He swept his hands over her, trying to find her curves, searching out those places he could pull away fabric and find skin.
Her clever hands were just as determined, her mouth equally greedy. When she sucked against the side of his neck, he grew more inflamed at being marked by her. She was the only woman he’d ever known who was so sexually aggressive, and it turned him on intensely.
It made him equally fierce in his determination to gather her up and glorify and gorge himself on her. He wanted to overwhelm her completely, take her to the floor and let the world listen to him making her his.
But he had one last shred of civility in him and brought her to the bedroom.
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