He pulled back to roughly say, “Ty dazhe na vkus sladkaya.”

I had no idea what it meant, but I didn’t care enough to ask. I just wanted the pressure of his mouth back on mine. I gave in to the urge to slide my tongue across the scar on his lower lip.

The lick saturated the air like some kind of dirty, carnal sin.

With a dark look, he closed the small distance, and I was lost. Any reservation in him melted with every press and dip, every touch of our lips. Each kiss was harder, wetter than before. A blaze seared through me as I drew my blunt nails down the length of his back. He growled low in his throat, and the slow glide of his mouth roughened.

Ronan stepped closer, pressing his hard-on against my lower stomach. When his lips moved to my throat, my head fell against the door with a moan. His hands remained braced on the frame above me. Hot and wet, he kissed a path down my neck that set off sparks deep in my core. My vision turned hazy, a heavy heartbeat pounding between my legs. I was a combustible ball of fire burning hotter every second.

He dragged his lips past my collarbone and nipped the soft flesh above my bodice. My nipples tightened at the closeness and warmth of his mouth. I was losing my mind in this hallway; would suddenly do anything for him to tug my dress down, bare my breasts, and put his mouth on them.

My hands were all over him: his face, his hair, now sliding up beneath his vest to feel his stomach, which was as tight as it looked.

“Touch me,” I begged.

His hands didn’t move from above my head, but as if he knew what I needed, he pressed his thigh between mine. Right against my clit. I panted, a wave of pleasure sliding down my spine when I rocked against it, already feeling the budding pressure of release.

I was nothing but need, flushed and wet and wanting.

He pulled back, his eyes narrowed but full of heat as he watched where I grinded on him. Watched the bare length of thigh that showed through the slit in my dress. Tension lit the line of his shoulders, tightened the muscles in his arms, and the idea he might be trying to stop only made me more desperate for this to continue.

I gripped a handful of his hair to pull his mouth back to mine. He refused. I tugged harder. He made a rough noise in his chest, then his eyes lifted to mine, alight with a challenge. He brushed my lips, but when I moved in to deepen the kiss, he pulled back just out of reach. To tease me, or to make sure I knew who was running the show. When I waited impatiently, he gave me what I wanted, nipping my bottom lip, hard, and then licking it.

I moaned into his mouth and rocked against his leg, needing more friction. The empty pressure between my thighs built and built, and I kissed him without finesse, humming desperately into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he rasped against my lips. “Are you going to come on me, kotyonok?” His accented voice grated abrasively as sand.

I couldn’t say anything if I wanted to.

He pressed his leg harder against me.

I put my face into his neck, biting down when the orgasm whipped through me—a sweltering inferno that knocked the breath from my lungs. In its aftermath, I shivered against him.

He finally touched me, fisting my hair and pulling my head back to look at me.

Eyes half-lidded, my head fell to rest against the door. Maybe I should be embarrassed by how easily and ridiculously fast he brought me to release. Instead, I felt nothing but his body heat, how incredibly hard he was against me, and an overwhelming tingling in my veins.

He stared at me for what felt like a long time. And then I watched something violent sweep away the lust in his eyes. Stepping back, his shoulders tense, he left me cold while I struggled to catch my breath.

“Go inside and lock the door, Mila.” It wasn’t soft at all, nor was it a suggestion.

I watched him for a moment and then acquiesced without a word.

Once the door shut behind me, I slid down it, trembling, while the hot burn of his lips still smoldered on my skin.

moonstruck

(adj.) dreamily romantic or bemused

A knock woke me. I groaned and pulled my pillow over my face when I saw it was only seven a.m. I’d stayed up watching Russian sitcoms into the early hours of the morning, my skin flaring with the aftermath of Ronan’s mouth on mine. It made sleep impossible to find.

I still couldn’t believe how quickly the kiss had escalated, that I orgasmed in a public hallway from only the press of his thigh. I would like to think it was the cyclone of teenage hormones and lust I suppressed, but I knew it was because we had chemistry. The kind that sizzled like the sun on hot pavement from simply being in the same room. And now I knew he felt it too. I could only assume his disturbed reaction afterward was due to him remembering I was only nineteen.

Like it would help, I planned to tell him I was actually twenty.

When the knocking continued, I sighed, tossed the comforter back, and padded across the room to answer the door, half-expecting Ivan to be standing on the other side. But it was only a teenage boy holding a large white box with a paper bag on top.

“Mila Mikhailova?”

“Um, yes?”

He shoved the packages into my arms and disappeared down the hall.

I watched him retreat and closed the door with my foot, then set the box on the bed. Peering into the bag first, I smiled. Breakfast. Opening the box, I found a card.

Don’t give this one away.

—Ronan

I lifted out a long faux fur coat. This one was softer and more luxurious than the last. It had to be outrageously expensive, but my easy heart still grew twice its size. I slipped my arms into the coat and sighed as I fell back on the bed, where I ate the delicious vegan pastry while running my fingers through the white fur.

I liked Ronan.

I liked him a lot.

The mere thought of him made my heart pulse to an exciting rhythm. I came to Moscow in search of answers, but now I wanted to see where this feeling could go even more.

The pastry soured in my stomach at the thought of what awaited me at home: a terrifying lecture, Carter, and the mundane. I wished I could avoid it forever, but guilt already suffocated me at leaving Ivan in the dark. I knew I wouldn’t last longer than a week before telling him where I was and kissing my first taste of freedom goodbye, so I planned to make the most of my seven days in Moscow.

Pulling myself out of bed, I showered and dressed in a flirty lemon-colored dress and a pair of thigh-high boots that barely fit into my bag but were necessary for a boost of morale.

As I walked through the lobby, I greeted the girl behind the counter with a smile and a, “Zdravstvuy.”

Her eyes widened, then she dropped her gaze to the computer in front of her. My smile fell. It seemed everyone here disliked me with a single look. Maybe they could tell I was an American. Were our relations with Russia that bad these days?

The straight-faced concierge beside her silently took me in. He looked about as friendly as Miss Trunchbull in Matilda, but at least he acknowledged my presence.

I headed out the front doors, beneath the cold and overcast sky.

My walk was long, and the sliver of bare leg showing was numb three blocks over, but I had to use my cash sparingly and didn’t want to waste it on transportation. With how oddly Ivan was behaving, I didn’t know what lengths he would take to force me back to Miami before my week of freedom ended.

Moscow was a beautiful city, full of rich architecture and history. I took everything in with wide, curious eyes. I was born here, and walking the streets made me feel close to my roots. Even the air felt lighter here, filling my lungs with the taste of emancipation.