Page 92 of Jewel of the Assassin
Two blank stares.
I sigh. “I need your help breaking into Roman’s office.”
Their jaws drop in perfect, synchronized horror. Zina’s crow, Shalun, gives a sharp caw, as if scandalized.
I roll my eyes. “He’s avoiding me,” I explain, flopping onto the fainting couch for dramatic effect. “My husband needs a lesson in theoppositeof personal space. I’m positively wasting away.”
Father Mikhail shakes his head with an airy laugh and mutters something about confession and plagues, but then rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “His office is too obvious. He might suspect something. And we can’t access it.”
Zina hums, tapping her nails against her skirt. “We could opt for the supper hall or study or?—”
Mikhail holds up a hand. “The chapel.”
I sit up, brimming with curiosity. “Thewhat?”
“He trusts me. If I send word he’s needed in the chapel, he’ll come.” A wicked glint dances in his eyes. “We’ll lay some blankets down. Light some candles. I’ll bless the union in advance.”
I stand as a heated thrill pulses in my blood. But I raise a brow. “Won’t God have an issue? You know, with the whole fornicating-in-a-house-of-worship thing?”
Mikhail chuckles. “As long as you clean up after yourselves, I suspect God has more important things to worry about.”
“You’re thecoolestpriest ever,” I squeal, twirling like I’ve just won the sinner’s lottery. I kiss his cheek and skip to Zina. “Now tell me what to wear.”
Zina squints at me, one brow raised. “You want to look like sin.”
I set one bold hand on my hip. “I want to look likeallseven sins wrapped in sex and silk.”
She hums, eyes scanning me like a tailor planning a dress for an execution. “Crimson velvet corset,” she says finally. “Boned within an inch of its life. Bare shoulders. Garter belt. Black lace gloves. No panties. And you wait on the altar—lying across it like a damn icon of temptation.”
Mikhail coughs. Shalun caws again. I grin.
“Perfect.”
“Exquisite and decadent,”Zina assures me.
I nod, saying nothing because I’m having a little trouble breathing. My blood races.
The chapel is quiet. Dozens of candles flicker, casting golden shadows across the altar and the marble floor like molten lace. Zina even had the foresight to warm the oil before massaging it over my skin in the small study next to the chapel. I couldn’t have made it into this sinful, little corset without her. She helped with the utmost respect. It’s one heave away from exposing my whole damn chest. And why it’s hard to breathe.
Now I lie sprawled across the altar like a sacrificial offering, my body shimmering under the low candlelight. My head is propped against my arm, curls tumbling over the edge like a gilded waterfall.One leg curls slightly, the other I’ve extended to elongate the line of my hips, my pussy peeking from between my thighs, already slicking my skin.
My pulse throbs everywhere. Especially my legs. The past week has been a slow-burning torture, my husband always just out of reach, his time full of everyone but me. Our bed is cold. My pussy is not.
When Zina hurries into the hallway, my breath stills. Roman is coming. My belly flips and clenches, jittery with nerves but mostly with the wet, desperate need coiling tight in my core. Mikhail and Zina are lurking just beyond the arched corridor, ready to spring our little ambush.
I hear my husband’s familiar footsteps. Measured. Confident. Ominous.
My heart somersaults.
Roman steps into the chapel, dressed in a crisp black shirt, the collar open, sleeves rolled up, exposing those muscled forearms and thick, rugged hands. I’ve dreamt about those hands wrapping around my throat all week. Sharp black trousers. He looks like he just walked out of a boardroom.
His eyes fall on me. And narrow. I bite my lower lip with sultry eyes and a hint of a smile, both sweet and sinful. His jaw ticks. His biceps flex, taut under the fabric.
Yes. There it is. The crack in his armor.
Right then, the chandeliers above the altar blaze to life, bathing me in warm light. I gleam like a decadent goddess.
The chapel doors slam shut behind him. Locked. He stiffens, but he doesn’t glance back. His eyes don’t move from mine. Oh. God, I might come from that predatory gaze alone.
