Page 80 of Filthy Promises

He smolders at me. “Then let’s see if we can’t find some inspiration.”

My lungs fill with air so thick it’s like inhaling smoke. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but watch as Vincent Akopov—crime lord, futurepakhan, and my personal sexual tormentor—slides the Polaroid from its envelope.

He examines my naked body. The seconds stretch between us, elastic and poisonous. My thighs are pressed together hard enough to crack bone.

I’m a mess. I’m an utter fucking mess.

“Rowan…” he growls finally, voice dropped to that register that turns my insides molten. My name alone is almost enough to make me combust. “Do you even understand what you’re doing?”

I can’t speak. Can only shake my head.

“You think this is about sex.” He leans forward, reducing the space between us to nothing. “It’s not.”

I swallow. “Then what is it about?”

“Control.” He reaches out, his fingertips grazing my knee where the slit in my dress reveals bare skin. “Power.” His hand slides higher, pushing the silk fabric with it. “Ownership.”

I should stop him. Actually, that’s one of a million things I should do. Also on that list are “slap him” and “scream” and “throw myself out of the car if that’s what it takes to get myself out of this disaster in the making.”

Instead, I part my thighs.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

“If that’s true,” I croak, amazed at how steady my voice sounds when I’m disintegrating inside, “then why are you the one who seems out of control right now?”

His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing to blue slits. “Because you’re not supposed to exist.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” He slides his hand higher, fingers dancing along my inner thigh. “… that you were supposed to be an easily dismissed diversion. Something simple to fill the time while I handled my father’s marriage demands.”

Heat blooms where he touches me.

“But you’re not simple at all, are you, Rowan St. Clair?” His fingers reach the edge of my underwear, and he traces the seam with deliberate slowness. “You’re a fucking complication.”

“I can stop,” I gasp, though we both know it’s a lie. “Being a complication.”

“No.” He presses against the thin fabric, finding the exact spot that makes me whimper. “I don’t think you can.”

My head falls back against the seat as pleasure spirals through me. This is insanity. We’re in the back of his car, driver separated only by a privacy partition that may or may not be soundproof.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I force my eyes open to find him watching me with an intensity that should terrify me. Maybe it does. Maybe terror and desire are just opposite sides of the same razor.

Maybe they both draw blood just the same.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, fingers stroking faster now, “and I will.”

The words won’t come. Can’t come. Because I’ve wanted this—wanted him—for five years. Because I’m already soaking through the silk of my underwear. Because I’m greedy and stupid and lost in the impossible reality of Vincent Akopov touching me like he’s starving for it.

“Please,” I whisper instead.

His other hand slides around my neck, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. “Please what?”

“Don’t stop.”

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