Page 13 of Vendetta Vows

His words set my heart fluttering again and I have to grip the edge of the leather seat to ground myself.

The car takes another bend and climbs higher into the hills. Below us, Los Angeles transforms into a constellation of twinkling lights, growing smaller with each curve of the road.

His hand moves again. But instead of the gearshift, his fingers land lightly on my knee, warm through the thin fabric of my dress.

A small gasp escapes me before I can stop it. The touch is innocent enough, but it sends electricity racing up my thigh.

"You're an enigma, Aurora Castellanos," he says, his voice low and rich.

I shiver softly at the touch. Seven years of careful distance, of protecting myself and anyone who might get close to me, all demand that I pull back. But I don't. I close my eyes, surrendering to the fact that I'm being touched, really touched, for the first time in years.

God, I've missed this.

"Isn't that why we're all here? In this town? In this industry?"

"Insightful as always." A soft laugh rumbles from his chest and something ghosts across his chiseled face that tells me I'm not the only one holding secrets.

But his hand on my knee—warm and inviting—beckons me to do something equally reckless.

Slowly, one aching inch at a time, I part my legs to give him better access. Taking the cue, he traces small circles with his fingers until they slowly slip under the hem of my skirt.

Flesh finds flesh, and I let out a long trembling breath that I didn't realize I had been holding.

"Still think you've been bad enough for the whole year?"

"Yes," I whisper, hardly recognizing my own voice.

His hand slides higher, the heat of his touch burning deliciously against my skin. "Even now?"

"Even now."

My heart is a wild thing in my chest as his fingers drift higher still, tracing the sensitive inside of my thigh. I've dreamed touches like this in the darkness of my bedroom, alone and safe from the consequences.

But this is real and dangerous and exhilarating.

"You like this, don't you?" His voice is a caress itself, confident and knowing.

"I do," I whisper again, head tipping back against the seat.

His fingers dance higher, sending a jolt of pure wanting through me.

A fleeting, wild thought crosses my mind: if he pulled over right now, would I beg him to lay me out on the hood of his car under the stars? The thought of his strong hands lifting me onto the warm metal, his body pressing between my thighs, and his lips crushing against mine while he thrusts into me.

Just as my fantasy reaches a crescendo, Ruslan's fingers suddenly withdraw. My eyes fly open, a protest forming on my lips.

"We're here," Ruslan says.

I blink slowly as my senses return, realizing the car has stopped. Looking out the window, I feel my heart skipping several beats at once.

"Nikoforov?" I breathe the name like a prayer.

The sleek, modern building with its subtle lighting and discreet entrance is the most exclusive club in LA. Celebrities flock here precisely because it's one of the few places they can let loose without worrying about ending up on TMZ the next morning.

And even better, they have averystrict no-camera and anti-paparazzi policy that they enforce ruthlessly.

"I told you we were going somewhere more private," Ruslan says, watching my reaction with that half-smile. "This is as private as it gets in Los Angeles."

I take in the understated elegance of the entrance. The doorman stands at attention, his posture straightening noticeably when he spots Ruslan's car.

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