Page 58 of Nothing More

“Why me, then? What could I have possibly done to put the wind up the Russian mob?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He sounded frustrated, and that alone told her that he was trying, and that he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted, and that he was unhappy about it.

She started to push for more…and then decided against it. It was late, she could do nothing at this point, and it would be a shame to waste such a nice orgasm. She flopped over onto her back with a sigh, and mimicked his posture, one arm tucked behind her head, cigarette held aloft in her other hand.

“You did it for a reason, then.”

“What?”

“Abandoned your post at the office and left me with that absolute heathen.”

“You don’t like Shep?”

“He’s loathsome. Perhaps harmless, ultimately, if taken properly in-hand. But I’m not convinced he’s at all capable.”

She swore there was an undercurrent of laughter in his voice when he said, “He likes punching things.”

“Well, there’s a big difference between punching things and being a proper bodyguard, isn’t there?” Too late, she realized she’d snapped at him. Took another drag and tried to calm herself. It turned out she was still quite angry with him. She truly did feel abandoned. “But I suppose it can’t be helped if you’re off investigating Russian connections.ThatI can understand. But if you’ve left him with me simply because you don’t like me, well, that’s–” Her voice caught betrayingly, and she snapped her mouth shut with a click of teeth. What a childish, needy thing to say. Especially given what had just happened up against her dresser.

Again came the ugly thought that he hadn’t been into it all, had merely been trying to calm her down and get her more pliant. It had worked, hadn’t it? Here they lay side by side on her bed, her naked, stripped of all armor figurative and literal, accepting the story he gave her. More or less.

The sheets rustled, and then he was sitting up and looking down at her, hair like curtains that framed a face tweaked with something she wanted to call concern. His brows had drawn together, two harsh black slashes and a crease between. Corners of his mouth downturned. “You’re angry.”

“I thought I made my anger perfectly clear this morning, when you were shrugging off all responsibility.” The hand holding the cigarette trembled, faintly, giving her away, and of course he noticed, because he noticed everything, dark glaze flicking to it and back. “Don’t think that makes you special. I’m angry with loads of people.”

His gaze shifted again, down from her eyes – toward her throat, where her pulse had begun to flutter again.

“What?”

He ground the stub of his cigarette out in the tray, then plucked hers from her fingers and sucked down the rest of it in one long drag.

“Rude,” she accused, and her pulse was pounding, pounding, pounding, anticipation winding up again, her freshly-plucked nerves humming.

“Sure,” he agreed, ground the second one out, too, and set the tray aside on the far nightstand.

She sucked in a breath when he turned back, because the heat was back in his gaze. That feverish, ardent look she’d convinced herself she’d imagined in the mirror, focused on her directly now, intense and unforgiving.

Christ. That look could kill a girl. She thought to say as much, or to offer some other clever quip, prove that she wasn’t as badly affected as she was…but found that she couldn’t. Could only watch, enraptured, animal in a snare again, as he planted a hand on the pillow beside her head and leaned down, until his face hovered over hers.

His hair blotted out most of the light, but she could see his five o’clock shadow, the little lines beginning to form at the corners of his eyes: evidence of squinting through harsh Moscow winters. Up close, his eyes were the color of expensive coffee. His breath fanned warm across her mouth, sharp with the cigarettes they’d just smoked.

His gaze tracked back and forth across her face, as though he was committing her to memory. He whispered something in Russian, and she had the thought that it sounded reverent, before he closed the gap and kissed her.

He didn’t kiss like a boy who’d grown up trading nervous pecks in the schoolyard, nor like someone who’d been cautioned to take things slow, to feel things out before he frightened off a spooked maiden. This was no tepid press, no questioning skim of lips on lips. Will you? Can I? Is this okay?

He kissed her knowing she wanted this. It was immediately hot, and open-mouthed, and wet. He flicked the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue, slipped it into her mouth, and then pressed her jaw wider with a thumb at the hinge, mouth slanting over hers, tongue fucking deep and rhythmic, sliding against her own. It was an invasive, devouring sort of kiss. She could hear it. It wasfilthy, and shelovedit.

How much fun had she missed out on only sleeping with tidy, uptight, well-bred boys? A lamentation for later, when he wasn’t tasting her soft palate.

He bit the point of her chin, hard enough she gasped. “Did you miss me?” he rumbled against the soft skin beneath her jaw.

“No,” she lied, and he nipped her there in retaliation. “Shit.”

“You’ll wake everyone,” he cautioned, his tone mocking.

“Fuck you,” she murmured, but pressed her lips together, fought to keep quiet.

A task he made difficult, when he sat up and whipped the sheet off her body. She had one, quick glimpse of his teeth, a nasty sideways smirk of delight, before he fell upon her like a starved wolf.

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