"No, you don't." He lifts me like I weigh nothing, pressing me against the cold stone wall. The contrast of temperatures---his burning skin, the frigid stone---sends shivers down my spine. "You hate that you love me. There's a difference."
And damn him straight to hell, because he's right about that, too.
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing silk aside like it's tissue paper. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, but his fingers are already moving higher and higher. "Tell me you don't want this---don't want me---and I'll walk away."
That's the biggest lie he's ever told me. We both know he'd sooner burn down all of Scotland than let me go.
Just like we both know I'd never let him.
"f**k you, Samuil," I moan as his fingers curl inside me, my nails leaving crescents in his shoulders that I hop
