Mikhail

15 (R)

The movement of his lips hypnotised me with each word leaving them. He remained completely oblivious.

There Mikhail stood sturdily, observing the seats in which Taylor and his entourage were to be seated soon.

Those deep and dark eyes moved between the empty seats, gruff tone going over his plan and unknowing of my attention being on anything else but it.

His tongue darted out momentarily to swipe over his lower lip and hands tucked themselves in to the pockets of his suit pants. I rested with my back against the wall, arms folded lazily as my eyes travelled over each muscle and feature of his side profile, drinking him in shamelessly.

I had been too excited to sleep, and not because I would get to kill Taylor today.

His lips stopped moving and slowly pulled up with an attractive grin. I couldn't drag my eyes away, let alone pretend I wasn't aroused to the point of immobility.

"Haven't you been taught not to stare, kukolka?" he wondered, feigning innocence as if he had no idea of the dirty thoughts running through my mind.

He turned his God-like frame toward mine, and I forced my eyes to meet his. My heart pounded against my chest, mouth running dry.

We were completely alone in the empty stadium, except for the members of staff preparing for the derby match. Being in his overpowering presence had grown too much to handle after that night.

I could easily shoot him, but the last thing I needed to touch now was the gun strapped to my side.

"I wonder," he mused confidently, taking a firm step toward me, focused now on me instead of the plan for today, "are you thinking of my fingers inside you, or are you daydreaming of more?"

Both, you brute.

I flushed red, chest constricting at his erotic tone. I stared at the dangerous man, unmoving and begging for something to happen. Anything. As long as it quenched the thirst I felt for him, it would suffice.

"Cat got your tongue?" his grin widened, sinfully pleased at the state he had me in without so much as a flirt.

With two strides he had arrived to stand before me, towering over me and peering curiously down at me. The second I caught a whiff of his delicious cologne, I grew lightheaded.

"You should pay attention," he advised lowly, hand reaching to brush a piece of my unruly hair behind my ear, his touch burning my skin, "there's several things I want to do to you, and they'll be impossible if you're dead."

I couldn't have cared less about his plan.

We were alone in one of the boxes at the top edge of the stadium, hidden from everyone and everything, most crucially from reason and sanity. I had submitted myself to him before arriving here, and trusted him to take care of whatever plans he had while I would go with my instinct.

In a situation where we weren't placed against each other, my instincts would carry me just fine.

Instead of lowering his hand, his fingers dug in to my hair to grasp it firmly, forcing my head up toward his.

I took my time letting my eyes move from his lips to meet his darkened gaze, unfazed by the painful grip, and no longer was he grinning.

My breathing deepened noticeably, heart racing at the overwhelming need flooding every inch of my desperate body.

I let my arms fall to my sides, not having to say anything to make him understand exactly what I needed. I needed more. It hadn't been enough, his fingers fucking me, and had only worsened the burn.