"You look beautiful," he told me, easily, no hesitation. A tremble moved through my insides, something that I didn't know was possible until him.
"Thank you."
"Are you ever going to stop blushing when I say that?" he asked, running a finger down one of my cheeks.
"Probably not," I admitted as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
"Good. Because I kind of like it," he told me as he led me to the Porsche he drove.
I found I liked that.
His car.
His nice watch.
I never much cared for material things.
I still didn't.
But it was all a part of him, little pieces of Mikhail Osman that made up this beautiful, perfect puzzle I was enjoying putting slowly, painstakingly together.
"So, are you ready to see the world's most absurd potato cellar?" he asked, putting the car into drive.
And I was.
I was ready to see anything and everything with him.
I didn't know how long we drove. I just know that his hand reached for and held mine the whole way there, occasionally giving it little squeezes.
I found I didn't even care about Levon's House.
But we arrived there nonetheless, meeting a man at the gate who gave us a speech about watching our step and not breaking anything before disappearing, leaving us to our own devices.
I have to admit, it was interesting, sure, that someone had - for some reason or another - created such an underground labyrinth, but it was really just underground hallways, dark, cold. And as we walked, I couldn't help but wonder if this man's life, his marriage, his everything was so dull that he had to spend all his free time practically tunneling away from it all, a thought that made a sad weight settle on my chest.
"Not quite what you were expecting, huh?" Mikhail asked, making me turn back quickly, guiltily.
He'd planned such a lovely evening, and I was just muddling through it.
"It's really impressive," I objected.
"But it's just an underground cave," he supplied. "But, you know," he added, smile a little wicked, eyes a little sinister, moving in toward me. "This type of outing had its perks too," he told me as he kept moving toward me, making me instinctively take a step back until my back met the wall, feeling the juts of the uneven brickwork jab into my flesh with nothing but the thin material of my sundress between me and it.
"Yeah?" I asked, chest tightening, air getting constricted.
He kept moving closer, feet moving to the outside of my shoes, hips pressing into mine, hand sliding up the side of my arm, the crook of my elbow, my shoulder, hand planting at the side of my neck, thumb slipping under my chin to nudge it upward.
"Yeah," he told me, voice a low, rumbling sound a second before his lips sealed over mine.
My belly flip-flopped, everything about me somehow accepting that this moment was never going to happen again, so the contact sent off little sparks of anticipation across my skin, prickling up goosebumps, making a surprised whimper escape me.
A rumble move through Mikhail's chest as his teeth snagged my lower lip, pulling just to the point of pain until they parted on their own, allowing him to slip inside.
Knowing how short the last kiss had been - at least compared to how much more I wanted - my arms rose, folding around the back of Mikhail's neck, holding him tight as his other hand rose, gently stroking up the side of my thigh, hip, waist, settling right to the side of my ribs, thumb pressed to the side of my breast.
It took every bit of self-control within me not to twist a little, so his finger moved across the hardened bud of my nipple.
But I didn't want to do anything that might make him pull away, put an end to it.
I was going to let him lead.
Even if it killed me.
As the kiss went on, and the pressure in my lower belly increased to the point of actual pain, I was starting to think it might very well do that.
Kill me.
Mikhail's lips ripped suddenly from mine, going to my neck instead, the touch making a shiver rack my system, something that made a growling noise escape him.
His hand shifted, palm closing over my breast, fingers curling in, squeezing, making my back arch away from the wall, pressing further into his touch.
His fingers shifted - thumb and forefinger finding my nipple, rolling it. The touch made a rush of desire shoot between my thighs, dragging a ragged moan from between my lips.
Lips claiming mine again, his hand went upward, slipping under the bodice of my shirt, dragging it down, exposing my breast to his touch for a long moment before his lips left mine again, this time moving lower, closing over my nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
In that second, I finally understood the term 'white-hot desire.'