Chapter 8 #2
Any remaining thoughts bleed out of my head. I surrender to the desire pulsing through me in time with her racing breath. Each inhalation pulls her sweet, light scent inside me. When my teeth graze her lower lip, she moans.
Her pliant body arches and shifts against mine. Anywhere my fingers graze, she reacts, twitching beneath me and angling for more.
There’s nothing but the raw, honest heat of her. Hands tangled in my shirt, fingers slipping through the gap between buttons. Her breasts pressed to my chest. Her real, dangerous warmth seeps through the cracks in my armor.
I can’t allow this.
I’ve seen what happens to men who let themselves feel. Men who lose control. They bleed out in back alleys, their lives wasted and forgotten. My father died taking a bullet for Roman’s father.
Loyalty and love.
Both equally fatal.
Attachments get you killed. Only the job matters.
This is weakness.
I’m not just letting Roman Kozlov down. I’m spitting on my father’s grave while painting a target on my back. Every lesson I ever learned about survival is slipping through my fingers because of this woman’s lips against mine.
The snap back to the current moment is violent.
Her lips keep moving, her tongue seeking connection as her warmth draws me in.
I need to erase this.
Reestablish control.
I’m the predator, not the prey.
Time to change the paradigm.
This isn’t about a connection. It’s about power. I pull away just enough to see her dazed eyes, her pupils blown wide with desire.
Perfect.
I hook a thumb in the waistband of her pajama bottoms. “Ready?”
Her body jerks in surprise, but she doesn’t stop me.
I yank the bottoms down in one smooth motion.
She’s not wearing panties.
I raise a brow, lick my lips, and taste her mouth on mine. “Still waters run deep, eh, Miss Chloe? I do appreciate when there’s nothing between me and my meal.”
In the quiet kitchen, her sharp gasp is electric. “I…I’ve read that sleeping without underwear on is—”
“Oh, I understand. I’m all about staying healthy. Exercise and eating well are also doctor recommended. So is getting plenty of fluids.” My hand slides between her thighs. “Which I plan to work on right now.”
More blood rushes south when I realize she’s soaked.
I find her clit with ruthless precision. One, two, three brutal strokes prompt her body to arch against the counter. “Spread your legs, Chloe.”
She obeys without hesitation. That alone has me almost rethinking my actions. I could do so much more to her, but this will have to suffice.
She bites her lip as she absorbs what I’m doing. Her eyes roll up into the back of her head when I push a finger inside her.
Tight. Hot.
Wet with desire for me.
“Good girl.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Her reaction is immediate. My praise causes her to blush and shudder around my finger. Just the way I knew she would.
She craves this as much as touch.
So easy to read.
So easy to control.
I work her with my thumb, stroke inside her with my finger, and add a second when she pants against my neck. She’s responsive, every caress triggering new sounds from her throat. I curl my fingers, finding the spot that widens her eyes, and her mouth falls open in silent bliss.
My mind shuts down completely. There’s only this. The slick heat of her around my fingers, the small noises she releases, the way her touch-starved body responds to me. I add a third finger, stretching her. Her face contorts with pleasure.
“Kolya…” She gasps for air, her nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt. “Please.”
Her blissed-out face is stunning. Distracting. A problem.
“Please what?” I keep my voice controlled even as my cock strains against my pants. “Tell me.”
“I need—” Her words break on a moan as I press my thumb harder against her clit, circling relentlessly. “I need to—”
“Come for me.” An order.
She falls apart in less than a minute, crying out my name. Her hands clamp onto my shoulders as she throws her head back, her body threshing with the force of her release.
My own pulse accelerates as I examine her flushed face. Breathtaking.
This is what I needed. Unraveling her, conducting a clinical observation of cause and effect without giving in to my own desires. She’s my puppet, twitching and jerking to the movement of my hand.
A choked cry escapes her lips, her muscles clenching around my fingers in rhythmic pulses.
I want to spin her around, shove her against the wall, spread her legs with my knee, and thrust inside her. Take my own pleasure from her body. Mark her as mine in the most primitive way possible.
But that would be losing myself.
I’ve regained control by breaking hers. I won’t forfeit it.
When she begins to crumple, I guide her boneless form into a kitchen chair. The kettle whistles, but she either ignores the sound or doesn’t hear it.
She’s like a marionette with cut strings. Utterly helpless without her handler.
Good.
She glances up at me, sated, her hair a mess from my fingers, her lips swollen from my kiss. “What about you? You didn’t… I mean,” she flushes a deep shade of pink, “I need to make you come too.”
I disregard the way my cock strains against my pants. “Later. Tonight is about you.”
Her dreamy exhale tightens my chest. “I can’t believe this is happening for me.”
Not to me. For me. As if I just granted her some kind of gift.
The words pour ice water down my spine, reminding me of our vast differences.
In her world, even this—my calculated attempt to dominate her, to reduce her to nothing but physical responses—becomes a “glass half full” situation.
Her incomprehensible capacity to find light in the darkness bewilders me.
A spotlight that shows me the filth on my own hands. Hands I just washed in her pussy, my fingers still slick from her orgasm.
With a bit more time and attention to detail, I could’ve completely unraveled her. The thought is unbidden and unwelcome.
Absolutely not. I will not break.
The self-directed rage transforms into cold, clarifying purpose. I wipe my fingers on my pants, erasing the evidence of her release. The mission reasserts itself, filling the cracks her touch created in my resolve.
Find the diamonds.
Complete the job.
Nothing else matters.
The vial’s still in my pocket. “How about that tea? Or maybe a beer?” I survey the kitchen, searching for where she stores her alcohol. “Do you even have beer?”
She tilts her head, confused by the sudden shift in topic. Her neck is flushed pink down to her collarbone, a physical map of her post-orgasm bliss.
She waves a limp hand. “There’s Guinness. And wine.”
Guinness. Stronger flavor to mask the bitter taste.
After silencing the kettle, I pull a can from the fridge and pop the tab.
She’s putting her pajama bottoms back on, oblivious to what I’m doing.
Perfect. I’ve already extracted the vial from my pocket, slipping it into my palm while grabbing the beer. With a quick tip of my wrist, I drop the clear dose of GHB into the open can, the fluid motion invisible to anyone not specifically watching for it. I’ve done this before. Many times.
I offer her the Guinness, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my system that I refuse to acknowledge.
She accepts the beer. “Don’t you want one?” Her voice is breathless as she continues to recover from what I just did to her.
For her.
Ridiculous.
“Sure.” I grab another beer and sit at the small kitchen table in the chair beside hers. Shouldn’t be long. Then I can get to work.
The drug is no longer only for the mission. It’s also a punishment. For her being a complication and for me almost succumbing. I’m putting danger back in its cage where it belongs.
She takes a few sips, the foam clinging to her upper lip for a moment before her tongue darts out to swipe it away.
“You know, I’m going to the craft store tomorrow.
Hobby Hut. They have this new shipment of construction paper that’s made from recycled materials.
The kids will love it. Might pick up more glitter glue too. ” Her words slur a bit at the edges.
The GHB works fast on her small frame, especially with the remnants of wine from the restaurant still in her system.
She blinks slowly, as if her eyelids have suddenly gained weight. “Do you…” She pauses, frowning slightly as she struggles to maintain her train of thought. “Do you want to come? To the craft store? You could carry the heavy stuff again.”
I don’t answer, instead waiting as she drinks more beer and sets the can down with exaggerated care. Her mind may not understand what’s happening, but her body’s certainly aware of its lack of coordination.
“You’re so…” She blinks again. “So quiet. Always watching. Like you’re…looking for something.”
Even as the drug clouds her mind, she’s perceptive. Thankfully, she’ll be unconscious within minutes, and then I’ll no longer need to sit beneath her observation.
“I feel weird.” She rubs at her eyes. “Really…really tired all of a sudden.”
“Should I go? Do you need to go to bed?” My questions come out compassionate, caring.
“No, I’m fine. You know what’s funny?” Her almost unintelligible words bleed together. “I never…did a one-night stand before. Never thought I’d be the kind of person…who…” She trails off, unable to complete the thought.
She’s never had a one-night stand. The confession doesn’t surprise me, though I almost regret being her first.
Almost.
Her head droops forward before jerking back up as she fights a losing battle. “S’weird. Can’t feel my…face.”
I sit in silence, waiting for the drug to suck her under completely. Her lashes flutter in a struggle against the inevitable and finally close. Her body slumps in the chair, her head falling forward.
She’s out cold.
Mission back on. Feelings locked down.
I have control again.
I wipe my face, stand, and gaze down at her unconscious form. With all that bright energy dimmed, she’s somehow smaller. The sight should satisfy me. Instead, I can’t ignore the hollowness in my chest.
I have at least two hours before she starts to come around.
Probably far more, given her petite size.
Plenty of time to hunt through her tiny house, uncover the diamonds, and disappear from her life.
She’ll wake up confused, maybe frightened, with only fragmentary memories of what happened between us. And she’ll never see me again.
I flex my fingers, which are still faintly sticky from her pleasure.
This is how it must be. How it always is. No loose ends. No complications.
No attachments.