Chapter 6

Back at the compound—this is what Dimitri and I have always called this place in the desert—I do my best to throw myself into my work. I don't want to think about what happened at the wake. I lost it, thinking of all the hypocrisy of these bastards, and then Mila was just there, like magic. I couldn't stop myself.

I told her it could end badly, maybe hoping she'd stop on some level, even if her stopping was the last thing I wanted. As I sort through my programs, I think about what I could do with more manpower. Or is that an excuse to see her again?

Screw it. I can't keep fighting this. Or maybe I could, but I don't want to when I can still taste her lips on mine. I can still feel her body pressed against mine, the lust burning up in her. I don't have to question if she wants me. At least physically, I felt how badly her body wanted me to claim her, touch her, massage her, and kiss every inch.

Leaving the bedroom, I go to Mila's room. I can hear the tap-tap-tap of keys typing. I put my ear against the door, listening with a slight smile on my face. It's like I can hear her passion in each frantically typed key.

I push the door open slowly, my smile widening when I see her typing away. Her back is to me, her curly hair tied in a gorgeously messy ponytail. She's typing with so much passion that her whole upper half moves, causing her ponytail to dance around.

She must sense me watching or maybe feel the change in the air because she turns, shock reverberating through her. Taking off her headphones, she says, "Uh, hi?"

I smirk, closing the door behind me, then rush across the room. It's been several hours since the kiss, but it feels far longer. "That's all you've got to say for me, huh?"

Her smile could cure illnesses. She beams when I take her hands, pulling her into my embrace. When I kiss her, it's like all her nerves melt away. It's like all my rage and uncertainty drains, too. We collapse into the passion, entirely giving ourselves to it.

When I pick her up, she wraps her legs around me like she's been waiting for me to do this. I moan as I carry her to the bed, laying her on her back. I lie on top of her, never stopping the kissing, holding myself up as I grind my body against hers and feel her heat bursting through her clothes.

Both of us are still wearing our funeral gear. Should that make this feel wrong? It doesn't, not even a little. It's impossible to feel bad when Mila is making those noises, and her hands are smoothing down my back like she wants to coax even more lust and hunger out of me, not that she needs to.

It feels good to be with her like this. I don't want to fight it even when I feel a sense of impending doom anytime I think about the future. So I don't. I focus on us, on the now, on the taste of her lips, and the passion in the way she shifts against me.

I lean back slightly, making a small space between our bodies. There's enough room for me to slip my hand farther and farther down her body, over her breasts, her stomach, until I come to her skirt. She opens her mouth, moaning when I slip up her leg and get closer and closer to her core.

Pushing my hand under the hem of her skirt, I stroke up her tights, feeling the heat of her bare legs beneath them. When I reach her pussy, she gasps, breaking off the kiss. The message in her eyes is clear: keep going, don't stop, make her drenched. I rub her faster, pushing down against her underwear, feeling the thick folds of her pussy shifting beneath as though her body is chasing the pleasure.

Soon, I can't kiss her anymore. I need to see her come. I lean back, watching her, fixated as her curvy body begins to shake and shimmer for me, her ample tits bouncing. I groan when I feel her pussy's wetness on my hand. She must be soaked, seeping through her underwear, through her tights, like her body is telling me to take her now, but not before I see and feel her come for me.

She almost screams when the orgasm finally grabs hold of her. Her whole body shakes for me in the sexiest way. She grabs onto my shoulders, squeezing hard so that I can feel her fingernails digging into me. It's like she can't even imagine controlling this pleasure barreling through her.

"Oh, oh, ohhhhhhh."

The last "ohhhh" makes my dick ache so much. My tip is leaking precome as I watch her, as I listen to the perfect mixture of tones in her moans. Part of it is a surprise, like she can't believe I'm doing this and how good it feels. She shifts against me, her hips twitching.

Finally, the orgasm passes. Her breathing slows down, and she looks at me with a mixture of shock and a deep passion to do it again. She suddenly sits up when I grab her tights, meaning to pull them down. She shakes her head. "It's too fast," she mutters, but something tells me that's not the whole reason. Maybe it's the note of fear that flutters into her voice.

"Nothing's too fast with us," I growl, then slip my hand under her tights.

Oh, hell. Dammit, she's so wet. I slide my hand into her underwear, over the folds of her lips, feeling her heat and her wetness. Sliding off to the side, I lean up so that I can massage her warm, soaked pussy while looking down at her and giving her body space to move.

"Oh, oh, oh." She moans, then grabs my wrist, glaring up at me. "Please?—"

When I circle her hole with my finger, she cuts herself off. For a minute or more—time does funny things around Mila—she lets herself experience the pleasure. Then she digs her fingernails into my wrist.

"We can't do this."

"You want it. I want it." I push against her, feeling her open for me, her lust-filled body giving me so many juices. I know I'm right; she needs this.

"Maybe I do," she snaps, pulling on my wrist. "But what about the fall?"

By the fall, she means autumn, three weeks, and the marriage deadline. I can't help but think of the fall as us falling to pieces, our whatever we're doing here turning to shit when she's forced to marry my brother.

Removing my hand is difficult, but I won't keep stubbornly touching her when she's asking me to stop, even if I can tell she wants it. She adjusts her tights, sitting up.

"Suh—"

I interrupt her with a kiss, opening my mouth and finding her tongue. She kisses me even harder, pulling herself close to me. She can say she doesn't want to go farther, but just kissing is enough to make her gasp in the sexiest possible way. Then she breaks it off, shaking her head even when she's moaning. It's like she's trying to tell herself no, even if she wants it. There's something so hot about that.

"Don't say sorry," I tell her.

"We shouldn't do this," she whispers. "Seriously, if we do this and then I have to stand at the altar, and you're there, watching us get married … We have to wait."

I stand up, taking a breath.

"Are you mad at me?" she asks hesitantly.

"No," I tell her. "But if I don't get some space, damn, Mila … I'm going to fuck your perfect, curvy body. I'm going to fuck your tight slit. I'm going to—" I cut myself off, shuddering. It's like a fire is about to consume me. "I need to work. You're right. We can't do anything until we know for sure."

When I turn away, she says, "Wait, Mik."

I smirk, turning back to her. "Mik?"

"Doesn't anybody call you that?" she asks, standing up and smoothing her hands down her skirt as if trying to make me even crazier by drawing attention to what I can't have.

"No," I say. "But there's a first time for anything, Mil."

"Mik and Mil. It sounds like the title of some Eastern Bloc fairy tale."

I chuckle, and she beams as though making me laugh is as rewarding to her as making her laugh is for me.

"What work, though?" she asks. She must be able to read the doubt in me. She walks closer, placing her hand on my chest. "Whoa, your heart's beating fast."

"Can you blame me?" I place my hand on hers.

"I'm not going to tell my dad anything. I promise. I hate him. I know how that sounds, but it's true. I can help."

"You don't even know what you'd be doing."

She lets go of my chest and folds her arms. Sometimes, Mila looks so vulnerable, as if, at any moment, she could crumple into grief and pain. Other times, like now, she appears so capable it makes me proud. "Does it involve computers?"

"Yes," I tell her.

"Then I can help."

I almost say no again. Or tell her I need to check with Dimitri, but I don't need to check anything.

"My excuse for coming here was for more manpower," I say.

"Really? That's what you told yourself?"

I laugh. "Are you saying I lied to myself?"

"Maybe a little. Please let me help. I don't want to sit around here like a spare part. I want to be useful."

How could I ever tell her no? She's so passionate, so confident. She's bursting with her need to do something productive. She looks so eager to help. Or are these all excuses? Maybe the blunt fact is that I want to spend more time with her.

"Okay," I say, and her face lights up with a broad, beautiful grin.

She throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. "Thank you."

I hold her, fighting the temptation to make it intimate. There's something wholesome about holding her like this. It fills me with a warm contentment I've never experienced before. I wonder if this is what the first stages of love feel like.

Thinking like this probably means I need to calm down. This could all still easily end in disaster.