Page 23 of Jewel of the Assassin
Hot tingles erupt all over my skin as he works my pussy with long, slow, deep strokes and the slightest rubbing of my clit. It’s driving me mad.
“Valentina. Makarova.Koroleva.” The third word is the deepest. It rolls off his tongue in his thick Russianbrogue like a term of power and empowerment, calling to something inside me—to stretch out my hand and seize what belongs to me.
Hebelongs to me.
All my nerve endings ignite. And the heavy depth of those fathomless green pools. He tweaks my nipple, and the pressure between my legs coils tighter. Heat grows, flaring, radiating.
He’s not just commanding. He’s seducing, mastering,owning.
He said my mind may never remember. But I know this dark truth: I will never forget this moment. Or what he can do.
He’s stealing me into a world of his own making. Everything about this place feels like a world detached, his own empire. He is an empire himself. An unbreakable realm in one man.
So, why does it feel like he wants to break me?
Caging a squeal, I writhe as he pistons his fingers in and out while training his thumb along my swollen clit, rubbing warm circles around my hardened nipples. My nails burrow deep into his legs, and I’m just relieved he doesn’t care.
One narrowing of his eyes. They seem to darken into green, ruthless storms. One tilt of his head. He claims my mouth, crushing my lips, tasting me at first before growing in sinful, unflinching resolve. He sucks, kisses, and bites, his tongue knifing through the inside of my mouth. His hands, his breath, his heartbeat all conspire and force me to mirror them.
Deep gravelly sounds leave his throat, resonating into my chest and my lungs.
All my muscles shudder. His cock throbs, twitching against my thigh, betraying his hunger.
“Let go, Valentina,” he utters, his hot, masculine breath drifting across my face. “Come for me.Withme.”
With his smoldering, dominating gaze and his fingers injecting deeper and harder, he breaks through every wall holding me back. I crash into his eyes as wave after wave of burning liquid shatters through me, a riptide tearing me into an undertow ofswirling bliss that seems to go on and on. He rubs my clit through the end.
It shocks me, stealing my breath.
“Ahh, fuck, there’s my girl!” he rasps. “My fucking plokhishka.”
He kisses me, his hips jerking, and his rock-hard cock jabs against my thigh, spewing his release. My vision goes blind as all my nerves electrify, and our orgasms sync. His hips finish a final roll while my body slackens, and I open my mouth more just to seek desperate breaths from him.
He’s still kissing me when he carries my worn body out of the water, wraps a towel around his waist, then another around me. I’m gasping when he lays me on the bed before ripping the towel away and kissing every inch of me until I’m begging in every garbled Russian word I know. He licks me again, driving me to a slow delirium of another orgasm.
And I nearly pass out, wondering how we’ve ever managed to leave the bed and get any work done…
“What do I like to do?”I ask as Roman eats lunch with me.
I swirl a bite of Stroganoff through the glossy cognac cream, the filet mignon so tender, it barely holds together on my fork. The truffled potato puree melts in my mouth.
This time, I let him choose the meal. But I approved.
After a fourth—or maybe fifth—orgasm, I passed out cold. I woke hours later, still wrapped in him, his palm spread possessively across my belly like it had grown roots. Now, I’m clean, dressed in a black silk nightgown, sitting across from him at the corner table while we eat lunch like a married couple with no unspeakable secrets between them.
As ridiculous as small talk seems, it’s what I want. I need something to hold onto.
Roman lifts his gaze slowly, fork paused midair. “Anything you want.”
I frown. “That’s not what I asked.”
He chews, swallows, and sets the fork down, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his crystal glass. The bastard has the gall to smile.
“You were always chasing something new,” he says, finally. “You mastered calligraphy, sculpting, piano—then dropped them like matches in snow. You dabbled in perfumes, stole oils, blended fragrances on your skin like alchemy. If you could create it, you wanted to conquer it. And then move on to the next thing.”
I blink. The image is vague—but not impossible. Something about it echoes. Perfume. Music. Motion. A hunger for more. Yes. All of that seems very…me. I sip from the steaming cup of Zina’s sharp herbal tea, grounding me.
His gaze never leaves mine. “You’ll want for nothing here in your home, Valentina. My world is yours for the taking. Every damn piece of it.”
