Chapter 15 #2
I pivot and step back, needing to carve out space away from his gunmetal scent, to breathe air that isn’t thick with the force of his focus.
My gaze snag on a sculpture in the corner.
A jagged knot of metal, all hard gleams and cruel corners, as impersonal as the rest of this place. “That sculpture. It’s…cold.”
Kirill’s hands still. I can feel him recalibrating, the weight of his stare shifting from my body to the art, then back to me. Silence stretches between us, thin and tight as piano wire.
“It’s a block of metal.” A flicker of surprise and an edge of irritation rumble beneath his otherwise flat tone.
He didn’t expect this. He thought I’d break first, not steer us from the tension clawing at the air.
“And before you ask me about it, I didn’t choose it.
I don’t think I’ve ever even seen it before. ”
I look at him from over my shoulder, then sweep my eyes across the living room.
Secondhand furniture, but not the sort of well-loved used I spy in most thrift stores.
The thin couch cushions are utilitarian and stiff.
The entertainment center on the far wall sits empty, all rough wood and jagged edges.
Paint peels off the walls, and water stains dye the popcorn ceilings.
Not a single picture or painting graces the space. No signs of life. While cold, the last house at least had some semblance of living.
“This isn’t a happy place.” The words slip out before I can choke them back.
The quality of his stillness transforms, electric and alive with vibration like the air before a lightning strike.
He’s drawing himself in, which sparks my nerves with anticipation.
Fear and desire, twined so close I can’t separate them, thrum through my veins.
Once he sets down the last piece of the gun, his eyes find me and pin me in place. Even through his blank mask, his attention slices through my skin.
Straightening his leg, he sends the coffee away with a sudden kick that jolts my pulse into overdrive.
From the sound, I know that thing weighs a ton. And he kicked it aside like a soccer ball.
Just how strong is he? The things he could do with his legs…
He crooks one finger. A silent command.
Closer.
My breath hitches.
The small movement resonates with authority. And despite the danger humming between us and all that I know about him, the pull reels me in. I bend toward him, magnetized, helpless as a compass needle.
Nerves jangle, heightening every sensation.
Fight or flight should take over.
But once again, my body selects a different option.
Arousal floods me, weakening my knees and my will.
While I hesitate, torn between my internal logic screaming no and everything else aching for yes, Kirill waits.
He’s patient.
He knows exactly how this will go.
Every instinct demands that I stop, but I take one step, then another, lured in despite myself. His eyes track me with a predatory hunger.
I halt in front of him, red dress brushing my knees, my bare feet chilled on the floor.
He crooks that finger again, his eyes flashing. Closer, Jordan.
The gesture nearly causes my knees to buckle, so I settle between his legs.
Creating a new kind of cage for myself that I will fall into willingly.
His thighs radiate heat through the silk and into my skin. His hands land on my hips, the light touch belying the strength behind those fingers. Iron in velvet gloves. Every caress carries a claim, a promise, an unspoken threat.
I have all the time in the world to back up. To leave, retreat to my room, and lock the door.
My heart beats heavy in my throat.
His hands climb higher, fisting silk, bunching fabric until the hem rises and my legs are bare. The dress scrapes over my skin, and the air prickles against every newly exposed inch.
Goosebumps race up my legs.
But he doesn’t stop there. He gathers the fabric in his fists, all the way up to my waist. His gaze locks on mine as he hooks his fingers in my underwear.
I grab his shoulders for balance as my knees weaken, his solid muscle unyielding beneath my hands.
Kirill yanks outward.
The elastic snaps against my skin. As the cloth tears and slithers down my legs, Kirill drops my dress.
Out of instinct, I grab the skirt with one hand, bundling the silk over my ribs. He smirks.
My entire body flushes. Still, I can’t look away.
His stare pins me in place, searing through my soul and heating my exposed body. The urge to press my thighs together nearly overwhelms me.
But his hands hold them in place, locking them open.
He leans in, never once breaking eye contact, and presses his mouth to my stomach. With soft lips and hard intent, he brands me, trailing heat that spirals and spools.
Twitches spark off beneath my skin. Now I understand the phrase “butterflies in your stomach.”
The line of kisses leaves tiny bits of moisture on my skin as he sinks lower on the couch, lower on my body.
My head goes light. My heart stutters.
I’m helpless. And I yearn for more.
With his relentless palms on my hips, he steers me exactly where he wants me.
Then he cups the back of my knee, lifting and setting my foot on the couch beside him.
He does the same with the other leg so I’m standing on the couch, straddling him, struggling to keep my skirt up and not tumble backward and bust my ass on the ugly carpet.
I’m already off-balance when his tongue finds my clit. The vulnerability frightens a good part of me.
The rest? Ravenous.
Before I have a chance to react, he sucks without hesitation.
When his tongue seeks out that hypersensitive place and zeroes in like a weapon, my whole universe contracts to white, blinding sensation.
I cry out before I can stop myself, the sound ragged and raw in my own ears. My free hand scrabbles at him. His shoulders, his hair…desperate for an anchor as the pleasure bowls me over.
There’s a violence to his movements. The relentless, torturous euphoria leaves me reeling, shuddering, helpless. His lips and tongue work my clit in rotation, sharp and intense, then soothing and hot.
And then his hands.
They roam over my legs, my ass, up my hips. Massaging, caressing, squeezing. Keeping me unsteady and uncertain of his next action.
I can’t move unless he lets me. Can’t breathe until he relents on the mind-wiping torment of my clit.
Bracing against him isn’t even an option since he continually shifts and jostles the couch cushion under my feet.
All I can do is grab the wall and clutch my skirt, only halfway aware of my wobbling knees.
He directs that same effortless lethality he used on those men in the alley on me, dissecting me down to blood and bone and nerve.
Showing me exactly who writes the rules here. Who’s in charge.
I love every moment.
Every second, blood rushes everywhere but my head, leaving me dizzy. This is nothing like the kiss—two kisses—we shared before.
This is more.
Claim. Ownership. Unerring control.
Distantly, I wonder why I’m allowing this. Why he even wants to and what the answers say about us both.
A particularly clever flick of his tongue banishes the questions to a spiraling abyss.
He pushes me closer and closer to the breaking point. No mercy. No gentleness. My body arches, and my elbows slam into the wall. I’m straining for the release he keeps just out of reach.
And then, at the last possible second, he stops. He removes his mouth and leaves me trembling, the absence of him as sharp as a slap.
I whimper, lost and desperate, the noise humiliatingly loud.
“Tell me, what is ‘Insurance’ and ‘Safety-237’?”
The question slices through the fog muddling my brain, scattering the static. My thoughts flicker and fade, white noise drowning any hope of coherence. I shake my head in confusion, unable to do anything else.
He adjusts underneath me, his thumb pressing my weakest point. His fingers, still thick with my juices, slide between my thighs and start to slowly push into me.
The jolt rips a gasp from my throat.
“Tell me.” His words are patient but relentless as his thumb circles. A perfect, excruciating torture. “What does the key belong to? What’s the number mean? Tell me.” His voice comes out flat. Empty.
Biting my lip, I look down at him.
His mouth is wet with my pleasure, his eyes solid black.
Still in control. Always in control.
I’m the one falling apart, unmade in his hands.
He’s dismantling me one sensation at a time, using my own body as leverage. A cruel tactic. And effective.
His hands keep moving. One on the back of my thigh. The other slowly working its way deeper, caressing every fold.
Each touch winds me tighter, dragging me closer to a tipping point I can’t cross without him. Desperate heat coils within me, need swallowing every other sensation. I’m nothing but trembling, helpless craving, my body surrendering in ways my mind never could.
I can’t resist him, not like this.
But I can’t tell him everything either. Not about my father’s safe or the real meaning of “237” or the secret history of my mother and her ruthless attempt to erase every trace of my father’s legacy. If Kirill pieced it all together—
His finger barely grazes my G-spot, followed immediately by his thumb on my clit and a kiss on my hip.
Almost!
So I offer him a sliver of info, enough to satisfy him and keep the real answers safe.
Enough to satisfy me.
“The key’s from the island. He…” My body arches helplessly as Kirill’s fingers shift, expertly sending a fresh shockwave through me. “He emailed me pictures. Beaches, the hotel, the key. From his first day there.”
His mouth finds me again, the devastating intensity of his tongue evoking another desperate cry from me. He pulls back, just long enough for me to choke out the rest.
“The key went to his hotel room. That’s all I know.”
I’m feeding him crumbs. Praying they’re enough. I don’t know what I’ll do if he—
“Good girl.” His words are muffled as he rewards me for giving in.
Relief mixes with pleasure as his mouth and fingers find their way back to me.
No amount of meditation could bring me this high or take me this far. He’s sin incarnate, that mouth of his twirling me like incense smoke.
His grip tightens. Suddenly, I’m on my back, thrown down onto the couch. There’s no more interrogation, no more questions.
Just him, taking and giving, stripping away all thought until I’m nothing but sensation. His hands force my legs apart, and his mouth returns to its ruthless, relentless work. I dissolve under him, every nerve laid bare.
This time, he doesn’t slow or drag things out.
The release rips through me, intense and unstoppable. The surge drowns out thought, reason, even fear, leaving nothing but this searing rush.
I call out his name, my hips bucking against his mouth. My body shudders beneath him, muscles tensing, seizing, then surrendering, again and again, as if the aftershocks will never end.
Afterward, I lie sprawled and gasping, every nerve crackling.
My vision swims, muddled by tears. Kirill towers over me, the ceiling light a halo around his head. An aura. A vision. My path forward.
And through the haze, a new, horrifying truth crystallizes.
If he decided to take me all the way—if he claimed every last part of me—I’d hand him everything.
Every secret, every answer, every hidden memory. I’d spill my life at his feet.
No one has ever undone me the way Kirill just did, and I’ve never been left with a hollow ache in my chest after the fact.
I want more.
And that’s what frightens me most.
Not his violence, not his ruthless control, not even the lethal intent beneath his touch. But the way he destroys each wall I’ve built.