Chapter 23 Aleksei #2
“And if I still choose to stand here?”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t understand that choice yet.”
“Then explain it.”
I almost smile at that. Her stubbornness would be infuriating if it weren’t so compelling.
I move closer, close enough to smell her perfume under the rain and blood and hotel soap. “My father,” I say, “would happily use anyone near me as leverage. Rivals would,f too. Men in my world don’t usually go after what matters first. They go after what’s easiest.”
“You keep saying things like that,” she murmurs. “Like I’m some… liability now.”
“You were almost taken because you were with me.”
“That doesn’t make me yours to manage.”
No.
It doesn’t.
But the fact that she says yours makes my pulse shift anyway.
I look at her, really look at her. Barely dressed, brave for no reason, fingers that still smell faintly of antiseptic and my blood.
“Zatanna,” I say, lower now, “this is the part where a smart woman puts distance between herself and a man like me.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth. Then come back up. “And if I’m not being smart?”
That is not something I should answer. So I don’t. Instead I ask, “Why aren’t you running?”
She lets out a small breath. “Because I’ve spent my whole life being afraid of the wrong men.”
I don’t know exactly who she means. Her father, maybe. The others before me. Men who use power in smaller, meaner ways. But I understand the shape of the sentence too well.
I lift my hand and brush my thumb just under her jaw, giving her time to pull away. “You should still be careful.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
Her lips part. “That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
“And is it also flirting?”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “There’s your answer.”
Her mouth curves, faintly triumphant. “You don’t scare me as much when you smile.”
“That should concern you.”
“It does,” she says softly. “Just not for the reasons you think.”
For one suspended moment, all I can hear is the rain.
Her hand lifts again, but this time it goes to the scar on my shoulder with more intention. She traces its edge with one finger and asks, quieter now. “Can we fix the new wound please?”
“It’s still nothing.”
She steps closer now, ignoring the trap in the room, ignoring the fact that I’m half-undressed and definitely not helping. Her focus is entirely on the blood.
“No,” she says softly. “It’s not.” She reaches for the first aid box and pulls out the antiseptic like this is suddenly the most natural thing in the world: standing in a locked suite with a man she nearly died with an hour ago, tending his injuries while he lies to security just to keep her near him a little longer.
Maybe it is natural. For us, apparently, all the wrong things are.
She wets a pad, then hesitates just before touching my shoulder. “This is going to sting.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“That is not reassuring.” Her hand lands lightly on my skin.
The first brush of antiseptic burns. The second doesn’t matter.
Because her fingers are careful. Because she’s close enough that the soft line of her dress brushes my thigh. Because every now and then her breath catches when she notices just how close we are, and each of those tiny sounds lands somewhere low and dangerous in my body.
I watch her while she works.
The slight frown between her brows. The concentration in her face. The way she bites her lip when she’s worried she’s hurting me.
“You should stop doing that,” I say.
She glances up. “Doing what?”
“Looking like you care.”
Her hand pauses on my shoulder. “Maybe you should stop making that so difficult.”
I take the gauze from her before she can pull away, but instead of using it, I set it aside and catch her wrist gently.
Her pulse flutters under my thumb.
“You should hate me tonight,” I say.
She searches my face. “Why?”
Because I’m lying to you. Because I brought you here. Because I want you in ways that make strategy impossible.
But none of those are the answer she wants.
So I give her the closest truth I can manage.
“Because every time I try to do the right thing,” I say, “I end up wanting the wrong one.”
Her lips part. She doesn’t pull her wrist free. And I know, with complete certainty, that if I kiss her now, I will not stop.
I pull her in before either of us can pretend this is still a bad idea.
Her mouth hits mine hot and immediate, like she’s been right on the edge of this for as long as I have. The kiss goes hard almost instantly. No hesitation. No testing. Just heat and hunger and everything we’ve been trying not to do.
She tastes like coffee and nerves and the soft sweetness that is just her.
My hand slides from her wrist to her waist, then higher, fitting around the back of her neck so I can tip her where I want her. She makes a small sound into my mouth, and it nearly undoes me on the spot.
“Zatanna,” I murmur against her lips.
She answers by grabbing fistfuls of my hair and kissing me deeper. That’s all the permission I need.
I walk her backward until the backs of her thighs hit the edge of the sofa. She gasps when I crowd in, one knee between hers, my mouth already leaving hers to drag down her jaw, to her throat, where her pulse is beating wild and fast.
I kiss it once, twice, then suck lightly until she arches into me.
“Oh—”
“Quiet,” I say, though there’s no real heat in it. More want than warning.
Her fingers tighten in my hair. “You are in no position to tell me to be quiet.”
I laugh against her skin, low and rough. “No?”
“No.”
I bite gently just below her ear. She shudders.
My hands move to her dress, skimming over her ribs, her waist, learning the shape of her through silk and heat. I find the zipper at her back and drag it down slowly, watching her face the entire time. Watching the second she realizes what I’m doing. Watching her chest rise faster.
The dress loosens. My mouth finds hers again while I push the fabric off her shoulders. She lets me.
God. She lets me.
The dress slides lower, baring the tops of her breasts, then lower still until I can see the curve of them above black lace. My hands tighten reflexively at her waist.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, before I can decide whether I should.
Her eyes flash to mine, surprised. Then I lower my head and kiss the upper swell of one breast, just above the lace.
She makes a broken little sound.
I do it again, slower this time, then let my mouth trail lower until I’m kissing the line of the bra itself, my hand spanning her back, holding her steady while she trembles under me.
“Aleksei…”
“Mm?”
“You are,” she breathes, then seems to lose the rest of the sentence.
“Intense?” I suggest.
She laughs once, breathless. “That is one word.”
I hook a finger under the strap and drag it off her shoulder with deliberate slowness. Then the other. Then I kiss the newly bared skin like I have all the time in the world, even though every second feels like it’s burning through me.
She’s squirming now, impatient, beautiful, flushed all over.
“Take it off,” she whispers.
I look up. “Bossy.”
“You started this.”
“Did I?”
She gives me a look that says I’m insufferable, and I want to kiss that look right off her face.
Instead, I reach behind her, unhook the bra, and pull it away.
Her breasts spill into my hands warm and soft and absolutely perfect, and for a second I just look at her. The way her skin glows in the low suite light. The way her nipples tighten under my gaze. The way her breathing goes shallow when she realizes I’m not touching her yet.
“Don’t just stare,” she says, mortified and aroused in equal measure.
I grin despite myself. “You want my mouth?”
“Yes.”
So I give it to her.
I cup one breast and lower my head, licking a slow circle around her nipple before closing my mouth over it. She cries out, head falling back, hands flying to my shoulders as I suck hard enough to make her hips jerk.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention, tonguing, sucking, biting lightly until she’s panting and writhing under me, her fingers digging into my skin like she doesn’t know what to do with how much she’s feeling.
Every sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
Every twitch of her body makes me harder.
I drag my mouth back up her chest to her throat, kissing and licking the flushed skin there while my hands move lower, pushing the dress down over her hips until it catches.
She lifts just enough for me to strip it the rest of the way off.
Now she’s in nothing but a scrap of lace at her thighs and those stockings that should be illegal.
I sit back on my heels for one second and just look at her.
She’s breathing hard, hair mussed, lips swollen, nipples pink from my mouth, and she’s looking at me like she wants to devour me whole.
It nearly finishes me.
“You are staring again,” she says, voice shaky.
“Because I like what I see.”
My hand slides up her thigh, over stocking and skin, inch by inch. She parts her legs for me without having to be asked, and that small surrender is hotter than almost anything.
I kiss her again while my fingers move between her thighs, finding the damp lace there.
“So wet,” I murmur into her mouth.
She bites my lower lip. “Your fault.”
“Yes,” I say, and push the lace aside just enough to feel her directly. “It is.”
She jolts, a moan tearing out of her as my fingers stroke through her slick heat.
I swallow the sound with my mouth.
The kiss turns messy, desperate. She’s tugging at my belt now, my trousers, trying to get me out of as many clothes as she can reach while I work her open with my hand.
Her frustration is beautiful. Her need is worse.
When I press two fingers inside her, she breaks the kiss and cries out against my throat, body arching hard into my hand. I curse under my breath and pump slowly, then harder, kissing her neck, her mouth, her tits again, unable to decide where I want to taste her most.
Everywhere. Everywhere is the answer.