Page 73 of Fierce Pursuit

It never satisfied that hunger for violence that ran through my veins.

If I were back home, I would have locked her in the bedroom or even in the fucking closet to make sure she couldn’t run away again while I went to work this out in the gym.

Instead, I was trapped in a small car, caked in mud, driving through the night to finally get to the city, which was nothing but bumper-to-bumper traffic even at this hour of the day.

Fuck my life.

Now that we’d finally gotten back to civilization, Marina tried speaking again.

“Where are we?—”

“Nope.” I cut her off.

“But I want?—”

“Absolutely not. If you do not keep your pretty mouth shut, I will give you something better to do with it.”

Even the thought of forcing her head down onto mylap for a blowjob while I drove had my cock lengthening down my inner thigh inside my pants.

She crossed her arms over her chest and scooted over toward her window.

I drove straight to the Ritz-Carlton.

Just because I was mad at Marina didn’t mean I was going to make her stay in some rat-infested motel. I should’ve, though. If it were anyone else, I would have rented a room by the hour so we could clean up and leave.

Marina, even when I was pissed at her, deserved better.

Waving the porter off, I strode around the car to Marina’s door.

She hesitated.

I grabbed her arm, fingers digging into the caked mud on her sleeve. She didn’t fight me this time.

Maybe she was learning. Or maybe she just realized there were too many witnesses.

The entryway of the Ritz-Carlton was a gleaming shrine of wealth, all Italian marble and chandeliers dripping with crystal. The heavy scent of polished wood and fresh-cut orchids clashed violently with the raw earth still clinging to us.

My shoes left smudges of filth on the Persian runner as I hauled Marina inside.

People stared. Socialites dressed to the teeth in designer couture, businessmen in cashmere coats and expensive leather attaché cases, staff in their perfectly pressed uniforms. They looked at us the way one might look at rats scurrying across a five-star restaurant’s floor.

I slid my hand from Marina’s shoulder down to herwrist, tightening my grip to make it look like we were just another couple. Never mind the mud, never mind the tension crackling between us.

At the front desk, the receptionist’s expression barely concealed her disgust, one manicured finger already hovering over the phone, ready to call security.

I pulled out my black Amex and slammed it down. “I need a suite. The best you have. My account is under Ivanov.”

Her eyes flicked from my face to the card. Recognition dawned. Her posture shifted, all contempt replaced by professional polish.

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, fingers flying over the keyboard. “The presidential suite is available. Would that suffice?”

“That will work.” I didn’t ask the price. I didn’t need to. “The car outside needs to be detailed and returned to this address.” I scribbled the farmhouse address from what I saw on its registration on a piece of hotel stationary. “I don’t care how it gets there, just charge it to my bill.”

“Of course, sir.” She folded the paper neatly, slipping it beneath the counter.

“I need clothes. My measurements and preferences should already be on file. Three suits. Casual wear. Make it fast.”

“Yes, Mr. Ivanov.”

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