Chapter 80 – Zander POV
Suddenly I can't even remember why I was moody earlier. Whatever family poison was lingering in my veins has been completely eclipsed by a much more pressing issue.
Ivan.
More specifically—Ivan, currently perched on my lap, straddling me like he owns the damn building.
I push my chair back slightly, making room for him without a second thought. My hands slide to his waist as naturally as breathing, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater.
This right here? This is the problem.
My sexual frustration.
It's immense.
I've been restraining myself for weeks—ever since that phone call during his heat. Ever since I realized my hand was no longer doing the trick unless it was paired with his voice, his scent, the memory of how he sounds when he falls apart. And even then, it's barely enough.
I'm a man at his breaking point, barely hanging on by threads of self-control stitched together with sheer force of will. And Ivan has no idea the kind of power he holds, sitting like that, all heat and temptation and slow, teasing smiles.
Our mouths meet—slow at first, deepening quickly.
Kissing Ivan is heaven. No other word for it.
But fuck me, if he won't show a single shred of mercy. He gives me everything except what I need most. And I'm respecting that.
I am.
I'm following his pace.
But I swear on every star in the sky—I'm not above begging.
My body reacts before I can stop it, hard and aching under him, and of course, of course, that's when his voice breaks through my daze.
"Zander?"
I blink, dazed, and meet his eyes.
"Did you hear anything I just said?"
He looks at me suspiciously, clearly catching on to where my brain had wandered.
"Nope," I say, not even pretending to lie. My gaze flickers shamelessly to his lips. "Not a word."
He rolls his eyes.
And I smile, because maybe—just maybe—he'll take pity on me.
"So what were you brooding about? Your secretary texted the cavalry—me," he says, arms loosely draped around my shoulders, voice casual but laced with concern.
I tilt my head back to look at him properly, the corners of my lips lifting.
"Nothing major," I murmur. "Not now that you're here."
I shift my grip and pull him closer, flush against me, and he gasps—soft, surprised, and utterly addictive.
The sound undoes me.
"Actually—on second thought," I murmur against his lips, my fingers slipping beneath the hem of the tank top hidden under his coat, brushing against warm skin, "I'm not that fine. Maybe… you could help me feel better?"
He raises an eyebrow, but his hands tighten around the back of my neck, sliding into my hair, and then he's kissing.
Hungry.
"Oh yeah?" he murmurs, his voice low, teasing, already breathless as he pulls back just enough to speak.
"That so?"
I hum in response, dragging him even closer until there's barely space between us. His legs tighten around me, his coat falling slightly off one shoulder, and I feel it—the shift.
The way the kiss turns from soft to searing. The way his body molds against mine like it belongs there.
I slip my hands under the coat draped around his shoulders and ease it off him slowly. It slides to the floor with a soft whisper of fabric, forgotten.
Then I grip his hips and roll them against mine—once, twice—just enough to make my brain short-circuit.
I feel like a teenager.
Hot. Clumsy. Out of my depth. So overwhelmed by how much I want him that it almost embarrasses me.
Almost.
His hands are still in my hair, tugging slightly, his lips swollen from the kiss, his breathing uneven—and he's looking at me like I'm everything.
How am I supposed to survive this?
"My beautiful prince," I murmur, forehead pressed to his.
"You're going to be the death of me."
He just smirks, smug and flushed. "That's the plan."