Chapter 18 Zatanna #3
The rhythm builds fast. Too fast. I’m still sensitive from before, every touch sharper, more intense, and he knows it. He knows exactly how close I am because he watches my face like he’s memorizing every second of it.
“You feel so good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “So fucking good.”
My fingers clutch at his shirt, wrinkling the expensive fabric. “Please.”
His mouth brushes mine. “Please what?”
I glare at him through half-closed eyes. “You are not making me beg twice in one night.”
A startled laugh bursts out of him, real and low and devastatingly sexy.
Then he rewards me by rubbing his thumb over my clit at the exact same moment he thrusts into me again, and I lose the ability to be clever.
“Oh my God—”
“That’s right,” he says. “Come for me again.”
The command shouldn’t work on me. It absolutely does.
Pleasure crashes through me, sharper this time, my whole body tightening around his fingers as I come with a broken cry. He kisses me through it, swallowing every helpless sound while I shake against him.
He slows, drawing it out until I’m limp and trembling, then eases his fingers away and rests his forehead against mine.
For a few seconds neither of us speaks.
My chest rises and falls too fast. His breathing is no better.
I open my eyes first. And then reality starts inching back in.
The restaurant. The woman outside. The fact that we are in a bathroom.
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half panic. “This is a disaster.”
He studies my face. “Possibly.”
“You are on a date.”
“Not anymore.”
That should make me feel better. And it does, a little.
Then, before I can stop myself, I ask, “What are you going to tell her?”
His hand slides down my calf, grounding me. “The truth.”
I blink. “Which part?”
“That I’m leaving.”
“And the rest?”
His gaze settles on my mouth again. “The rest,” he says, “is none of her business.”
He kisses me once, softer now, and helps me down from the counter. My knees wobble. He catches my waist automatically.
I glance at the torn lace on the floor and then back up at him. “You owe me new underwear.”
His mouth curves. “I’ll buy you ten pairs.”
“You are not picking out my underwear.”
“We’ll see.”
I snort, then immediately wince because my whole body still feels like it’s humming.
He notices, and his expression darkens with satisfaction. “Can you walk?”
I straighten as best I can. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that honestly.”
That gets another quiet laugh out of him, and the sound does something helpless to my insides. Then he reaches for the door handle, pauses, and looks back at me.
“Stay here for one minute,” he says. “Then come out. I’ll take care of the rest.”
I hesitate. “Aleksei.”
He waits.
I lower my voice. “What are we doing?”
For the first time all night, he looks like he doesn’t have an answer. His hand tightens on the handle.
Then he says, “Making a mess.”
I lean back against the counter and press both palms to the cool marble, trying to steady my breathing.
My legs are still trembling. My mouth still feels swollen from his kisses. My whole body is humming, too aware, too raw, too alive. On the floor, the torn scrap of lace stares back at me like evidence from a crime scene.
What are we doing?
Making a mess. His words echo in my head, dark and rough and far too honest.
I know he told me to stay here. One minute. Let him handle it.
But the thought of walking out through the dining room, of facing that woman, of seeing her eyes flick between us and understanding exactly why he’s leaving, makes heat and shame flood me all over again. I can’t do it. I just can’t.
So I fix my dress as best I can, splash cold water on my face, and take one look at myself in the mirror.
Flushed cheeks. Kissed mouth. Guilty eyes.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I slip out of the bathroom and find the service corridor instead of the main hall, following the discreet brass signs toward the staff entrance. The farther I get from the terrace, the faster my heart starts pounding. By the time I push through the back door into the night air, I’m almost running.
The cold hits my skin like a slap.
Good, I need that.
I hurry down the narrow path behind the estate, gravel crunching under my heels, one hand clutching the side of my dress, the other wrapped around my phone. The world feels too bright, too sharp. Every nerve still lit up from him. Every thought a mess.
This is insane. I just let my boss tear my underwear off in a restaurant bathroom while his date waited outside.
I am absolutely losing my mind.
The back path opens onto a quieter street lined with old stone walls and dark trees. No pedestrians. No sound except the wind moving through the branches and the frantic click of my heels on pavement.
I should call Frankie. I should call a cab. I should stop walking long enough to think.
Instead, I keep moving, fast, trying to outrun the heat in my body and the panic in my chest.
That’s when headlights sweep across the road.
A dark sedan pulls up beside me, smooth and sudden.
My stomach drops. The passenger window lowers halfway, too slow, too deliberate, and every instinct in my body screams at once.
Run.
But my feet freeze for one fatal second as I turn toward the car, pulse hammering, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.