Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
So, I make a show of it.
I shimmy out of my clothes… slow, deliberate. My boy shorts cling to the soft curve of my ass, barely covering anything. He groans—deep and guttural—and I feel it slice through the silence.
I draw in a breath, then let it out, shaky and uneven.
Then I reach under my tee, unhooking my bra. My breasts are small and perky, the nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton.
“My fucking god, woman,” he growls. “A man would have to have fucking nerves of steel not to be tempted by you.”
Oh really? I think, fighting a smirk.
Just because no one’s ever claimed me doesn’t mean I’m not worth wanting. But rejection sinks in deep. I’ve gone to parties. Dances. I’ve smiled and flirted, tried. But my classmates knew who I was, and all it took was my brothers lurking in the background to make anyone vanish, like they already knew the price they’d be forced to pay. Like I cost too much.
And maybe it’s normal to internalize that.
To start wondering if something’s wrong with you.
No man has ever truly wanted me. Not once.
Mia used to say they looked sometimes. But boys back off when faced with real men. Boys don’t step up. They don’t defend you.
They don’t murder the bastard who drugged your drink.
They don’t protect you.
I’m not in the presence of a boy.
And I’m not a little girl anymore. I may be young, but I’ve lived through some shit. I’m not interested in childish games or small talk or endless flirting that goes nowhere.
I want something real.
With him.
Forbidden or not.
Because they’re all forbidden except for the pathetic hangers-on my brothers approve of, the ones who are happy to lick their damn boots for access to the Kopolov throne.
So I turn toward his bed and let him look, really look. Let him take me in like I’m something rare and forbidden. His arousal strains against the fabric of his pants, and the sight does something to me. It makes me feel… radiant. Dangerous. Desired.
He’s undressing me with his eyes, and I can feel every slow, deliberate stroke of it across my skin.
I swallow hard, my heart hammering like a drumbeat in my chest.
I lie back on his bed, the pillows cool beneath me.
“Kiss me, Seamus,” I whisper. I say his name softly, hoping the sound of it will break him. That maybe hearing it will be enough to make him touch me.
His responding growl is raw, desperate.
“Stop it, Zoya,” he says, barely controlled. He’s losing his grip. I can see it.
I shake my head slowly.
“I want you to touch me. Please.”
He growls again, a warning this time.
“No.”
Fine. I know exactly what I’m doing now.
If he won’t touch me… then I’ll do it myself.
I spread my legs and slide a hand under my panties, between my thighs, slow and shameless, my breath coming faster as my fingers move through my slick folds. He watches, frozen, his chest heaving.
I let out a moan.
Then he curses and moves, prowling over. I circle my clit faster.
He stops me, catching my wrist in his hand. Then he slides onto the bed beside me, curling his strong body around mine. His fingers find me—his touch rough and reverent all at once.
I gasp, my hips jolting. Oh my god.
“Seamus.” I moan, immediately drowning in pleasure.
He strokes, slow and skilled, until I’m shaking… until I’m moaning his name into the dark.
His mouth meets mine. Our tongues touch. And when I come apart in his hands, it’s not just release.
It’s surrender.
Chapter 5
SEAMUS
She walks in like she doesn’t have a fucking care in the world. Like I didn’t just rescue her from a goddamn predator two nights ago, take her back to my forbidden flat, make her come, then watch her all fucking night as she slept between my sheets.
And still—I watch her.
My avenging, beautiful angel saunters in with grace that makes my throat tighten. She's wearing this low-cut white dress, the kind that clings to her like it was sewn directly on her. I honestly don't know how the hell she gets out of the house wearing that. She’s got to have a decoy or something.
I stifle a growl, eager to smack her perfect arse again for walking around on display like this.
A halter top, V-neck, the cut dips low, deep enough to make my brain short-circuit. Perfect, soft cleavage peeking out, daring me to look and daring anyone else to try. I always feel her before I even see her. Zoya fucking Kopolova.
My enemy. My obsession.
She glides over to the table like she owns the room, her eyes locking on mine with that mischievous sparkle. She nods.
“Didn’t know if you’d make it tonight,” I say, shaking my head slightly, trying to maintain my cool.
“Why not?” she replies with a wicked little smile. “You are my Mr. Thursday.”
Her Mr. Thursday. Jesus. If her brothers ever heard her say that, they’d lose their fucking minds. She’s completely oblivious to the way men turn and look at her as she walks by—how their gazes linger.