Kholodov's Last Mistress by Kate Hewitt Page A

‘Sergei—’
    ‘Shh.’ His hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs smoothing the line of her jawbone, his gaze steady and intent. It felt as if he were staring right into her soul. ‘I neverstopped,’ he said softly, and then he bent his head and kissed her.
    She’d expected something passionate, hard and demanding, purely physical. She’d convinced herself that that was all there was between them, all there ever could be. Yet Sergei’s kiss was so very soft, his lips as gentle as a butterfly’s brush against her mouth, and as sweet as nectar. How could such a cold, hard man be so achingly gentle?
    She stilled under that kiss, let his lips move softly over hers, nudging her own apart.
I never stopped.
Was he telling her the truth, that he’d never stopped desiring her? This kiss felt as if he was. It was so amazingly tender, so heart-wrenchingly wonderful, so
surprising.
Her mouth opened under his and his tongue slipped inside, touching the tip of hers gently, a question.
    A question she could only answer with a most resounding
yes.
    Her arms came up around him, revelling in the feel of his hard strength pressed against her. He deepened the kiss, his mouth taking such sure and yet tender possession of hers. His other hand curved around her hip and pulled her closer, moulding her body intimately to his. His mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, the tender curve of her shoulder, his tongue flicking along her skin, teasing and tempting. She gasped aloud as the sensations raced along her nerve endings, pooled inside her.
    His mouth left her skin only for him to say one word. ‘Please.’
    Her mind spinning, her body on sensory overload, Hannah didn’t realise what he was asking until he tugged her hand and led her to the bed. His eyes blazed into hers as he stood in front of her, the only sound the crackling of the flames.
    With one sinuous tug he pulled the zip down the back of her dress and, already rather loose, it slithered off her shouldersand pooled at her feet. She stood there in only her bra and panties, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the fire, the heat of Sergei’s gaze. She had an okay figure, but she knew it was nothing special. No huge boobs or tiny waist. And Sergei had probably been with supermodels …
    Hannah swallowed. And shivered some more.
    He touched her shoulder, his hand warm as it slid over her skin. ‘Don’t. Don’t be ashamed. Or afraid.’
    ‘I know I’m not like—’
    ‘No,’ he told her. ‘You’re better.’
    She swallowed again. Nodded, because she believed him. Matthew had never told her she was beautiful. He’d never said much at all, because their meetings—Hannah couldn’t even call them dates—had been so rushed, even furtive. And it was only later—too late—that she discovered why. To her own lasting shame and pain.
    She pushed the thoughts away, not wanting to allow them to dim the perfection of what shimmered and pulsed between her and Sergei now. For this moment felt perfect … even if that was all it was or ever could be. A moment. A night.
    Her hands trembled just a little bit as she lifted them to Sergei’s shirt. She didn’t think they were steady enough to undo his buttons. Sergei shrugged out of his blazer, tossed it to a chair. The movement was sinuously graceful, unbearably elegant. Hannah let her hands smooth the silk of his shirt over his shoulders. He had amazing shoulders, bunched with muscle, unbelievably wide. She could feel the heat of his skin through the silk.
    Sergei reached behind her and pulled down the duvet. Then in one fluid movement he scooped Hannah up and laid her down gently on the bed. She lay there, watching him. His eyes had gone dark, almost navy as he gazed at her and unbuttoned his shirt so she could see—actually see—the hardbeat of his heart, the desperate intake of breath. He was as physically affected as she was.
    Sergei shrugged out of his shirt, and then his trousers and boxers quickly followed. Hannah