Chapter 27 #2
A soft sound behind me. I turn too fast and nearly betray the whole thing. Zatanna stands in the doorway to the hall in one of my shirts.
Nothing else, as far as I can tell.
It hangs off one shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, moonlight catching the loose dark fall of her hair. She looks half asleep and sinfully soft all at once.
“Can’t sleep?” she asks, voice low and rough from sleep.
I move before she can come farther into the room. One smooth step sideways. The ring disappears into my pocket.
Her gaze sharpens slightly. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
She narrows her eyes. “That looked like something.”
I shrug, too calm. “You were asleep.”
“Apparently not anymore.”
She takes a few slow steps toward me, bare feet silent on the tile. The shirt shifts with her movement, showing more skin than it hides. My thoughts derail so fast I almost laugh at myself.
Good. Want is easy. Want I know how to handle.
The ring in my pocket, the thoughts in my head, the possibility that I brought my grandmother’s heirloom to a villa because some doomed part of me already knows who it would fit best on—
That I do not know how to handle.
So, I do the only thing that makes sense.
I distract her.
When she gets close enough to touch, I catch her wrist and pull.
She gasps once, soft and startled, then lands in my lap as I drop into the armchair behind me, bringing her down over one thigh with just enough force to make the breath leave both of us.
“Aleksei—”
I kiss her before she can finish, and hopefully hard enough to erase questions.
She melts into it faster than pride would allow her to admit, one hand going to my shoulder, the other to the back of my neck, and for a few perfect seconds there is no ring, no inheritance, no future beyond the warm, willing body in my lap.
Her mouth opens under mine, sweet and sleepy and immediately heated, and I slide one hand up under the shirt she’s wearing until I find warm skin and the soft underside of her breast.
She shivers.
“There you are,” I murmur against her lips.
“That,” she says, already breathless, “was suspiciously convenient.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
I drag the shirt farther down her arm and push the fabric aside until one breast spills free into my hand. Her breath catches and her head tips back just enough to give me access.
Perfect. I lower my mouth to her.
The nipple tightens under my tongue the instant I touch it, and she makes that low, helpless sound I am becoming dangerously addicted to. I suck gently at first, then harder when her fingers tangle in my hair, encouraging, needy.
“Oh—God.”
“Not him,” I say against her skin.
That gets a shaky laugh out of her, which turns into a moan when I flick my tongue over the peak again and drag my free hand up her thigh under the shirt.
She shifts in my lap, instinctively seeking pressure, and the movement grinds her exactly where she needs against my leg.
Her whole body jumps. “Mean,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
I move to the other breast, kissing, licking, biting lightly until she’s squirming and restless, hips rolling helplessly over my thigh. The shirt is half off her now, twisted around her waist, and her skin in the moonlight looks almost unreal.
I can feel how wet she already is when my hand slides between her legs.
No panties. Of course not.
A pulse of satisfaction moves through me so strong it borders on possession.
“You came to find me like this?” I murmur, fingers gliding through slick heat. “No underwear?”
Her face flames, though whether from embarrassment or arousal I no longer care to separate. “I was sleeping,” she says, and breaks off with a gasp when I circle my thumb over her clit.
“Mm.”
“You’re awful.”
“Still in my lap.”
Her nails bite into my shoulders. “That’s not the defense you think it is.”
I kiss her again while I work her open with my fingers, stroking slow and deep until her breathing gets ragged and her whole body starts to soften against me.
She tastes like sleep and salt and woman, and I am losing the thread of restraint faster than I care to admit. Her hand moves down between us, fumbling for the button of my trousers.
I let her.
She gets them open with more determination than grace, and when she wraps her hand around my cock, I groan into her mouth.
“That,” she whispers, pleased with herself, “seems fair.”
I look at her through half-lidded eyes. “Careful.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m already trying not to pin you to this chair.” The challenge in her face flares instantly.
Too late.
I lift her just enough to free myself fully, then hold her there over my lap, one hand gripping her waist, the other guiding my cock between her thighs.
She looks down. Then up at me.
And if there was any doubt left in either of us, it dies in that look.
“Tell me to stop,” I say.
Her answer is to sink down on me slowly, taking me inch by inch until both of us are shaking.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
She clutches my shoulders, forehead dropping briefly to mine as she adjusts to the stretch. My hands slide over her back, under the shirt, holding her steady while she breathes through it.
When she finally moves, it is unsteady and gorgeous and enough to tear every coherent thought out of my head.
Her hips rise, then fall again.
Once. Twice. The chair creaks. The sea keeps moving outside. The shirt slips farther off her body until it’s barely clinging to one arm, and my ring burns in my pocket like a live thing.
Do not think about it.
So, I don’t. I think about her instead.
About how she looks riding me in my shirt in the moonlight like something dreamed up by a man too exhausted to tell fantasy from fate.
I grip her hips harder and lift into her, setting a rhythm that makes her gasp and hold on tighter. Her moans are real in this quiet room. Nothing polished. Nothing performed. Just breath and need and my name in her mouth when I hit deep.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Take me.”
She does.
God, she does.
Soon there is no more teasing in it. Just urgency. Her moving on me, me driving up into her, our mouths finding each other between breaths while the chair rocks dangerously and every sound she makes pushes me closer to the edge.
I slide one hand between us and find her clit slick and swollen.
She cries out against my mouth.
“That’s my girl,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her whole body tightens. She comes hard in my lap, shaking, mouth open on my shoulder as I keep her there, rubbing her through it until she’s trembling and oversensitive and impossible not to follow.
One more desperate thrust. Another.
Then I come too, deep inside her, my head falling back against the chair while release tears through me hard enough to leave me lightheaded.
For a long moment afterward, she stays where she is, collapsed against my chest, both of us breathing too hard to speak.
I can feel the ring in my pocket.
Heavy. Silent. Waiting.
Her fingers slide lazily over my throat. “You’re very distracting,” she murmurs.
I rest my hand at the back of her neck and look out at the dark ocean beyond the glass.
If only that were the problem.