Chapter 8 Zatanna #2
I’m soaked. Completely. My body aches, needy and exposed, my breath coming in short, helpless pulls as I stand there trembling.
My instincts finally kick in—run—and I whirl, heart pounding, bolting for the door.
But I barely make it three steps before a strong arm closes around my waist, lifting me clean off the floor.
I gasp, twisting, trying to break free, but he’s unyielding, a wall of muscle and heat pressed against my back.
“Let me go!” I manage, my voice shaking, desperate and wanting all at once. I know no one can hear us. The office is too far, the walls too thick.
He holds me easily, like I weigh nothing at all. His arm tightens, pulling me flush against his chest, his other hand sliding up—so close to my breast I can feel the heat of his skin through my blouse. I shudder, fighting the urge to arch into his touch.
I want to hate this. I should. But my body is betraying me, every nerve on fire, every inch of me aching for more.
He turns, pinning me gently but firmly against the cold, tiled wall. The steam still curls around us, making every sensation sharper, more intense. He leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice gravelly and low.
“Quiet.”
My breath catches, the word vibrating through my skin. I freeze, pulse skittering wildly as his hand trails lower, over my stomach, hips, until it dips between my legs.
He finds me there—soaked, throbbing, open—and his fingers pause, just long enough to make me whimper.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he whispers, awe and hunger tangled in his tone.
I bite my lip, a desperate sound breaking free, half-ashamed, half-pleading. I want him to touch me—please, God, just touch me—but instead, he steps back, letting the cool air hit my skin where his body just was.
I’m left trembling, pinned to the wall by nothing but the memory of his hands and the need he’s woken in me, my whole world narrowed to the aching emptiness where I want him most.
My whole body is shaking, the wall cool against my back, my chest heaving as I try to pull myself together. He’s still so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the shower mist swirling around us, making everything feel unreal, too sharp, too intimate.
I turn around slowly. He’s barely inches away, now wrapped in nothing but a low-slung white towel, water glistening on his chest.
Aleksei’s eyes are locked on mine, dark and wild, as if he’s barely restraining himself. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. My legs are weak, my panties drenched, my heart beating so fast it hurts.
I open my mouth to say something—an apology, a plea, I don’t even know—but nothing comes out. Instead, he steps in, his hands bracing the wall on either side of my head, caging me in with his body, his lips just a breath away from mine.
“I shouldn’t touch you,” he murmurs, voice rough with need. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
His thumb brushes my cheek, so gentle it makes me shiver. “But you are.”
He leans in, just close enough for his breath to mingle with mine, for the heat of his body to make me forget my name. His hand drops to my waist, fingers digging in, just enough to remind me how easily he could take what he wants. How much I want him to.
My pulse hammers, my thighs squeezing together for any relief, desperate for friction. I’m so wet I’m embarrassed, but I don’t move. I can’t. I want to see what he’ll do—what I will do.
He drags his fingers up my thigh, slow, teasing, until they’re just under the hem of my skirt, ghosting over the edge of my soaked panties. His lips graze my ear, sending goosebumps skittering down my spine.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, but his voice is a challenge, not a request.
I can’t. I won’t.
I tip my head back, exposing my throat, my body screaming yes even as my mind spins.
“Please,” I whisper, but I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
His fingers press against me, through the thin fabric, and I gasp, hips rocking helplessly into his hand. He groans, the sound filthy and possessive, and for a heartbeat the rest of the world disappears—there’s only his touch, my need, the slick heat building between us.
But just as quickly as it began, he pulls away, leaving me trembling, desperate, aching for more. He steps back, the space between us suddenly too wide, his expression a storm of want and restraint.
His voice is a command, rough and final. “Get out.”
I don’t argue. I don’t look back. I stumble for the door, barely managing to keep my legs steady, the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears louder than my footsteps. The office air feels cold, sterile, almost foreign after the heat and steam and the dizzying rush of what just happened.
Vivian is sitting at her desk, her lips curled in a satisfied, knowing smirk. She glances at me over her glasses, one eyebrow raised in perfect arch.
“Told you not to go in there,” she murmurs, her tone laced with both amusement and a hint of pity.
I have no answer. Nothing left to say. My cheeks burn as I move past her, my mind a mess, body still throbbing with need and confusion and a strange, electric shame.
All I can do is keep walking, clutching the edge of my desk for balance, desperate to disappear.