“Ziya!” She practically shouted. “My name is Ziya. Learn it, live it. I don’t care what you do outside of the office, or here in Da’s home, but I am damned if I am going to have you talk to me like I am some small child that needs to be pacified, or worse a woman who doesn’t know what she is doing.”
Her chest was heaving, and because of the way he held her, almost in his embrace, he could feel each movement against his own, suddenly rioting body. He tried to step back again.
“Look—”
“Look, Ziya!” She yelled. “Are you deaf? Or just that cruel? Let go of my hands, you arrogant baboon. I don’t need this from you.”
“Stop moving, please,” he said, in a low voice. His patience strained, his own emotions running up to take the place of the patience.
“I won’t! I am your boss! I am good at what I do and I have lived twenty-nine years without some Neanderthal telling me what to do every five minutes, goddammit. You take your orders from me, Krivi, not the other way. Now let me the hell go.”
Ziya blew a gold-streaked bang off her forehead and glared at him, so mad, so very mad at the casual ease with which he could subdue her and the indifference with which he held her. She was even madder at herself for wanting to talk to him at all, and cursed her wayward hormones to hell and back.
“Ziya—”
“Good.” She smiled, and it was blade-sharp. “Now say it a million times and we won’t have a problem.”
Something snapped. It could have been a twig, could have been the air, or it could be his control which broke free from the restraint of four long years and he dragged her closer and ravaged her mouth.
Ziya was so surprised, shocked out of her wits, that for a single, trembling second she just hung in mid-air, gravity having no pull on her muscles. It was Krivi, his mouth that held her anchored. Then his hands dug into her wrists and she grabbed his hands in return and kissed him back.
Hard.
Using her teeth to bite at his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. And he groaned as he staggered back, taking her with him. They hit the fence and he released her hands to run restless, rough hands over her shoulders, into the short mop of her hair as he ruthlessly kissed her. And she opened her mouth and let him in to do exactly what she’d ordered him not to. Take over.
But being taken over was a glorious melding of tongues and breath and a scent that could only come from a man who’d faced down death. Taken over meant running her hands over the hard planes of his shoulders, and into his hair. Clutching it hard, desperately as she tried to take the kiss deeper. He bent her back, holding her still by the head, taking a single kiss into depths she hadn’t known existed until she groaned. And only half in pain. They both sprang apart in the same instant.
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