Chapter 11
CINDY
Ifind him in the garage after breakfast. Leo is on his way to the dentist, which means I have no one to hang out with. And I have a few things I would like to say to Luka.
Yesterday, he avoided me like the plague.
This morning, I wake up and find my locket repaired and sitting on my dresser. I’m pretty sure there’s another tracker in it, but I’m wearing it anyway. I have nothing to hide.
He’s leaning over the open hood of his Mustang. His hands are already stained with grease. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that reveals those tattooed forearms that have haunted my dreams.
He doesn't look up when I enter, but I see his shoulders tense. He knows I'm here.
"We need to talk," I say.
"No, we don't." He keeps his eyes on the engine, adjusting something with more force than necessary.
"Yes, we fucking do." I step closer, close enough to smell his cologne mixed with motor oil. "Look at me."
"I'm busy."
The dismissal lights a fire in my chest. After everything the man has put me through, he's going to stand there and pretend I don't exist?
"Coward," I spit.
That gets his attention. His head snaps up, those hazel eyes blazing with fury. "What did you say?"
"You heard me." I take another step forward, close enough now that I could reach out and touch him. "You're a fucking coward, Luka Markovic. Big bad mob boss who's afraid to admit he might have been wrong."
He straightens to his full height, towering over me. "I wasn't wrong."
"Then look me in the eye and tell me I betrayed you." My voice cracks slightly, but I push forward. "Tell me I mean nothing. Tell me you don't believe a word I said."
For a moment, we just stare at each other. I can see the war playing out in his expression—anger and doubt and something that looks dangerously close to regret.
"Tell me," I whisper, moving even closer. I reach for the locket around my neck. “If I were guilty, would I willingly put on your tracker?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. His jaw clenches, that muscle ticking in his cheek. He doesn’t deny there’s a tracker in the necklace.
For some reason, I like the idea of him knowing where I am. It makes me feel like I belong. I’m wanted enough that he wants to know where I am.
"I thought so." I shove against his chest with both hands, putting all my frustration and hurt behind it. He barely moves, solid as a fucking wall. "You know I'm innocent. You know it, but you're too proud to admit you were wrong."
I shove him again, harder this time. "Say it!"
His hands shoot out, catching my wrists before I can push him a third time. "Stop."
"No!" I struggle against his grip, but he's too strong. "You destroyed my mother's necklace. The only thing I had left of her. For what? Because you're paranoid? Because you can't trust anyone?"
“I fixed it.”
“Yeah, because you want your leash on me.”
"You want the truth?" His voice is low and dangerous. "Fine. Here's the truth. I don't know what to believe anymore. Every instinct I have tells me you're lying, but when I look at you..."
He trails off, his grip on my wrists loosening slightly.
"When you look at me, what?"
"When I look at you, I see something I can't afford to want." The admission seems to cost him something. "Something that will get us both killed if I'm wrong."
His thumbs stroke over the pulse points on my wrists. I know he can feel how fast my heart is racing.
"You're not wrong," I breathe.
"Prove it."
Before I can ask how, his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is almost violent in its intensity. His teeth scrape against my lower lip. I taste copper. His or mine?
I kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all my anger and hurt and desperate need into the connection. When he releases my wrists, I immediately fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer.
"Fuck," he groans against my mouth, his hands sliding down to grip my hips.
His hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, skimming over my breasts, gripping my ass like he owns it.
Maybe he does.
He lifts me easily, setting me on the hood of the Mustang. I’m wearing a pair of leggings and a sports bra. I had every intention of using the gym to work out some of my frustration, but this works.
This is definitely a stress reliever.
"This doesn't change anything," he growls, but his actions contradict his words as he pulls my bra over my head.
"I know," I gasp as his mouth finds my throat.
He works his way down my body with teeth and tongue, marking me, claiming me. When he reaches my breasts, I arch into his touch, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
I reach for his shirt. I want it off. I want to see the body he keeps hidden.
He doesn’t stop me as I pull it up. He reaches behind him with one hand and jerks it up and over his head.
Finally.
Finally, I get to see the defined pieces.
There are two letters above his heart—LM.
Leo. Leo Markovic.
There are Russian letters that trail down the left side of his ribcage.
I don’t get to study his body long. His mouth is back on mine.
His body pushes against mine. His hard cock pushing against me through his jeans. My leggings are no real barrier. My panties are wet. My body craves his.
He strips me efficiently, his eyes dark with hunger as he takes in my naked body spread across his precious car.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, running his hands up my thighs.
I reach for his belt, my fingers fumbling with the buckle in my haste. He helps me, shoving his pants down just far enough to free himself. Then he's positioning himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine.
"Tell me you want this," he demands.
"I want this," I breathe. "I want you."
He pushes into me slowly, filling me completely. The stretch is intense. Overwhelming. I cry out at the sensation. He stills, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed against mine.
"Move," I whisper.
The car rocks slightly beneath us with each movement. I don't care if we damage the paint job. Nothing matters except this. The way he feels inside me feels so good. His eyes never leave mine.
And then suddenly, he pulls out of me completely. The loss of him leaves me empty and aching, scrambling for equilibrium.
"No," I gasp, reaching for him blindly. "What are you—"
His hands grip my hips, firm but not bruising, lifting me off the hood like I weigh nothing. My legs are shaky, barely supporting me. Before I can get my bearings, he spins me around to face the car.
"Hands on the hood," he commands, his voice rough with barely controlled need.
I obey without thinking, my palms flat against the warm metal. I feel him move behind me, the heat of his body bracketing mine. His hand presses between my shoulder blades—gentle but insistent.
"Bend over. Let me see you."
The words send a fresh wave of heat through me. I let him guide me forward until my chest presses against the hood, my body displayed for him. Vulnerable. Open. Completely at his mercy.
His hand pushed against my back, making me bend forward. My bare breasts push against the place my ass has just been. He grabs my wrists and stretches my arms wide across the hood.
And then he’s pounding into me again.
The new angle sends shockwaves through my entire body. I can feel him deeper this way, hitting spots that make me see stars. My fingers scramble for purchase on the smooth metal of the hood as he drives into me with a desperation that matches my own.
"Mine," he growls against my ear, his chest pressed against my back. "Say it."
I can barely form words. The pleasure is too intense, building to something that feels like it might destroy me. "Yours," I gasp.
His hand slides around to find my clit, circling with just the right pressure. I'm already so close, teetering on the edge of something massive.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough with need.
The orgasm hits me like lightning, arcing through every nerve ending. I bite down on my own arm to muffle the scream that tears from my throat. My body convulses around him.
I don’t get a chance to come down from the high before he pulls out and peels me off the hood.
He’s kicked off his shoes and pants and is now stark naked.
Through a haze of lust, I let him lead me to one of the chairs in the corner. He sits down and pulls me over him, forcing me to straddle him.
I guide myself down onto him slowly, my hands gripping his shoulders for support. The position is different. I’m in control.
He’s giving me the power.
His hands settle on my hips, guiding my movements as I rock against him.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
I meet his gaze. My heart skips a beat. I’m riding the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. He’s not hurting me. He’s letting me choose.
I want to hurt him. I want to wield the power over him.
And I can tell he wants me to move faster.
I slow down.
His jaw clenches and his eyes close. It makes me smile to watch him struggle not to take over.
I roll my hips.
We both groan at the exquisite pleasure.
I do it again and again before rising up and pulling him out until just the head of his cock rests inside me. He’s struggling to breathe. His fingers are digging into the flesh at my hips. It’s painful, but nothing compared to what I’m doing to him.
I slide down, inch by glorious inch.
“Cindy.”
He’s dying. Slowly. Painfully.
“Luka.”
That’s it. He loses the fight. He’s relentless. His hips thrust up while his hands pull me onto him, burying himself balls deep. I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any deeper, but he was sure trying.
I move faster, chasing the building pressure. The fullness of him inside me is too much.
My nails dig into his shoulders. I’m certain I’m drawing blood, but I can’t stop.
"Luka," I gasp, feeling myself climbing toward another peak.
"That's it," he murmurs, his free hand tangling in my hair. "Let me see you fall apart."
When the second orgasm hits, it is different from the first. I bury my face in his neck and bite down hard. He lets out a loud roar with his arms wrapping around me as he empties himself inside me.
For a moment, we just breathe together, our foreheads touching. Then reality creeps back in, and shame washes over me in waves.
I just had sex with my captor.
Again.
In his garage.
On his car.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I try to turn my face away, to hide from his penetrating stare, but he catches my chin with gentle fingers.
I can't meet his eyes. Can't face what I've become—a woman who falls apart at the touch of the man who stole her life.
He's still inside me, still connected to me in the most intimate way possible.
“Who's the coward now?”
The crack of my palm against his cheek echoes through the garage like a gunshot. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn't move to stop me. Didn't even flinch. He just takes it like he thought he deserved it.
He does.
I hit him again, harder this time, putting all my self-loathing and confusion behind it. A red mark blooms across his cheekbone, but his eyes never leave mine. There’s something almost grateful in his expression, like my anger was easier to handle than whatever else was building between us.
"Feel better?" he asks quietly.
I want to scream. To hit him again and again until this ache in my chest goes away. Until I could stop wanting him despite everything he's done to me.
Instead, I climb off him and collect my scattered clothes. My legs are shaky, my body still humming with the aftershocks. I could feel him leaking out of me, a reminder of how completely I had given myself to him.
Again.
I yank my sports bra over my head, not bothering to look at him. He hasn’t moved.
I pull on my leggings with jerky movements, hyperaware of his eyes tracking my every motion.
I’m so fucked up. So completely, utterly broken that I crave the touch of the man who destroyed my life. What did that make me? What kind of person begged for more from their captor?
I walk out of the garage.
Behind me, I hear the explosive crack of his fist meeting something hard, followed by what sounds like Russian cursing.
“You don’t know the half of it, buddy,” I murmur.