Page 132 of Jewel of the Assassin
It snaps.
Gripping her hair with ruthless abandon, I fire back-to-back thrusts and blow my load down her throat. She swallows every goddamn drop. I put my erection back into my pants, because it’s still hard for her.
And when she rises, I kiss her. A mad, vicious kiss. She kisses me back, and I taste my cum, her possession, and her feminine claim.
She was mine from the moment I laid eyes on her at that ball.
“I remember, Roman,” she says against my lips.
I cock my head, brows lowering.
“I remember you.” She touches her palm to my chest. “I remember the ball. But only that night, Moya Korona. I remember it all.”
43
“Learn what it is to unman someone.”
VALENTINA
Iremember that night…
Breathless from dancing the night away with every man I could damn well find—mostly to annoy my father—I steal away to a back hallway branching off the ballroom. I gather my gold skirts as I hurry, cheeks flushed, lungs heaving.
In the shadows, I lean against the wall, pressing out my chest as I tug at the corset strings, loosening them so I can finally exhale.
My virgin pussy may be promised to one of the Makarova sons—I forget which—but that doesn’t mean I won’t give hell in the meantime. Much to Father’s chagrin, Sasha and I bargained for twenty-five. I have six years. Six years until the wretched holy matrimony that will wrap chains around my throat.
I remove my mask. Father spared no expense with the amethyst and gold Venetian ensemble. But I drop it on the marble floor like it means little more than a pebble.
Half my breasts spill free now, and I can breathe. It doesn’t wound Father too much that I am the shining belle of the ball. Afterall, other powerful families will throw their offers into the pot, as if I’m some goddamn bride prize up for auction. But the Makarovas are the only family as powerful as the Volkovs.
From the little knowledge I have, it’s due to the oldest brother, their assassin, spoken of only in hushed tones. I never see him at functions like this. So many rumors abound. Like he has left a trail of hundreds of bodies in his wake. And he wears a mask every time he commits a kill. Sounds sexy.
But I don’t give a fuck. After the past two years, dancing senselessly with any man I can find, I’m convinced not one could ever ravish me as I desire.
“You might take more caution with whom you choose to dance.”
The voice, low, velvety, and dangerous, overpowers the hallway; I’d swear the very walls shake. A deep Russian brogue.
I stiffen. But my blood ignites at the enthralling voice.
The moment he steps into view, my heart ricochets in my chest. He steals all my breath. Every inch of him is impossibly taut, muscles prominent beneath that elaborate red suit—the kind that looks like fire and shadow. Black leather gloves cling to his hands. A sword in its scabbard brushes his thigh, and a cape drapes like liquid night from his shoulders. His golden hair is bound high, flowing down his back in a flawless waterfall, and the skeletal gold mask only sharpens his edges, making him seem like a predatory warrior. Here to lay siege and conquer a fortress.
I recall my earlier words. The masked assassin. I cast it aside. We are at a masked ball after all.
His eyes catch mine—emerald green, bright and untamed, slicing right through me. He inclines his head slightly, that casual air impossible to maintain against the feral focus in his gaze.
I tilt my head, matching his smirk. “Is that a warning or a threat, Sir?”
“Merely a statement of fact, Valentina Volkov,” he purrs, stepping closer so the scent of him coils around me. I don’t flinch. Even if every word, every motion seems to strangle my pussy with heat, Idon’t step back. “They are all inferior, simpering fools who would never know how to cherish a woman of your…royalty.”
Desire and curiosity tighten deep in my core and chest, twisting my stomach and quickening my pulse. Turning my whole body to him, I set one hand on my hip. “Would you happen to know who is worthy, my masked phantom?”
His jaw tightens, muscles hardening. I take pride in his responses to me. Normally, I reduce men to shivering imbeciles. Or sloppy, wet messes of lust.
This stranger? I read the hunger in his being. But it’s controlled. It’s dominant. Oh, how I’ve longed for one man in my measly existence to dominate me in a way that would bring me to my knees. In force and submission at the same time. This man? He turns me inside out and upside down.
I’ve never felt more alive!
