Chapter 21
Kirill
You.
Her merciless voice ripped through me like shrapnel.
She wants me.
Not healing or hope or some pretty illusion. Me. The Shark, the problem, the man you pray you never meet in the depths.
She watches me with wild green eyes that contain equal parts terror and hunger. Peers at me like she’s finally found the trouble she’s always searched for.
Her podcast still buzzes from my phone speaker. All those mantras and moon-cycle affirmations should needle at my skin. I’ve glimpsed past all that bullshit before. But her voice slips under my armor, honest in the way only the desperate can be.
I know survivors when I see them. I know what clawing for daylight feels like.
I throw the phone on the couch cushion. I got everything I came for.
Jordan, who’s still wearing the black silk I chose for her, her jaw set with determination, doesn’t even flinch.
Just…waits.
For the next bad thing.
For me.
Maybe I taught her that, or maybe the world did.
I close the distance in three strides. With blown pupils that leave nothing but a thin rim of color around the black, her gaze follows me. Her heart thumps wildly at her throat. I almost expect her to bolt or attack.
She does neither. Instead, she tracks my every motion and stands her ground, like she’s daring me to shatter her.
I slide my palm behind her neck, threading my fingers through her silky hair. My thumb rests against the hot skin beneath her ear and strokes the throbbing pulse. Her skin heats from my touch.
For once, I’m gentle. I just hold her here as I’m caught between fear and some deeper, darker impulse.
I should destroy the moment, claim what I want, and leave her with nothing. That’s always been my script.
Use the tool, burn the bridge, and then move on.
But I hold back as I examine the storm of emotions cross her face. Fright. Uncertainty.
Hunger.
Her lips part, her breath quickening and her chest rising and falling like she’s already drowning in me. The electric charge between us is dangerous.
Any other woman would shove me away. A normal girl would flee from this.
Jordan?
She simply meets my stare with a wide, stubborn gaze.
Another chunk of ice melts in my chest as old, brittle history vaporizes.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m moving.
My mouth claims hers, swallowing her gasp. For a heartbeat, her lips stay soft and vulnerable, then she’s fighting back with everything she has.
No.
Not fighting back.
Fighting closer.
Her arms knot around my neck, and her hands fist in my shirt. She tastes like fear and surrender and sweetness, a flavor I could get addicted to fast.
I drive her into the wall. My body pins hers, one hand curled around her throat while the other grips her thigh and hikes it up to wrap around my hip. I tug her so tightly that the heat between us could set the building on fire.
Black silk rides up around her waist, cool and slippery under my fingers.
Lavender tickles my nose and coats my tongue.
She whimpers against my mouth like a needy animal.
The sound vibrates all the way through me, lighting up nerves I thought long dead.
I break away and drag my teeth down her jaw, along the frantic beat at her throat. She tips her head back, offering up the supple skin beneath her chin, her breath coming in ragged bursts.
This isn’t cold or professional or using sex as a weapon.
This is a confession, a raw, possessive answer to her one-word invocation.
She manifested me.
Now she’s mine.
Ever since I closed that laptop, since the gleam in her eyes on stage, since she lied to save me instead of herself, she’s been mine.
Knowing that—giving myself permission to admit the truth—triggers a rush of adrenaline-spiked lust through my entire body, charging my blood with little sparks.
I want to show her exactly what she does to me.
My hands map the shape of her under silk, finding every place that inspires her to shiver, arch, and beg for more. I could break her so easily.
But I don’t. Instead, I worship.
I plant my mouth on her pulse, her clavicle, the hollow where her life pounds against my lips. She’s shaking, not from fear but with desire, clutching my shoulders, my arms, and holding on like I’m the only real thing in the world. With her back pressed against the wall, she climbs my body.
More.
The word explodes behind my eyes. More of her shuddering and this animalistic surrender. I don’t just want her body. I want her head, her secrets, all the raw places she hides from the world. Her truths torn free, offered up to me and me alone.
And the fucked-up part?
She wants me right back. Wants the shark, the darkness. Not despite of what I am, but because of it. I can taste her craving in every moan.
When Jordan gasps my name, I know I won’t come back from this.
I’ve marked my territory.
She’s marked hers.
I haul her up, her legs locked around my waist, her weight nothing in my arms. With the bed against my shins, I lower her back and follow her down. The black dress lies bunched and useless around her, a dark puddle on pale sheets. She claws at my shirt, popping buttons and breathing fast.
“Kirill.” I’ve heard her say my name a dozen ways, but never like this. Like the only word left in the world.
I brace myself over her, soaking her in with my knee shoved between hers and my hands caging her head. Her chest heaves as a flush blooms across her neck, her dark hair wild on the pillow.
She’s not perfect, but she’s alive. Raw. Beautiful.
Perfect for me.
I find the zipper at her back and drag the tab down, aided by her shameless arching. The dress falls away, unmasking the black lace lingerie that I’d bought after destroying her last pair. My hands claim her waist, and I dig my thumbs into bone and soft skin, addicted to the feel of her.
“Please.”
She’s begging. Not for mercy. For me.
I kill the thought, determined to stay in this moment with just her and pretend nothing outside of this bed exists.
But when I slide my mouth between those perfect breasts, tasting salt and sweat and her, and she bends into me and claws at my back, I can no longer even remember my original plan.
I trail kisses down her stomach with fiery lips, and her muscles jump under each graze. I hook my fingers in her underwear and peel them off, exposing her inch by inch. Just as greedy as I am, she kicks them away.
Pushing her thighs open, I bury my face, my tongue hunting her flavor and devouring her in a way that leaves no doubt about who she belongs to.
Her back bows off the bed as an unfiltered cry breaks from her lips. She tries to trap me with her thighs while I continue tormenting her with my lips, tongue, and teeth.
This isn’t like the safe house, and I’m not using a trick or torture tactic.
This is pure need. I just want her.
I crave every moan, every twitch, every instant she loses herself.
Her hands fist in my hair, yanking viciously enough to hurt. I drink in her body, watching her come apart.
All her walls have collapsed, leaving me free to do exactly what I want.
And I want to do everything.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling and stroking until she jumps straight to her release.
Satisfaction swamps me as she screams before clamping down hard. Ripples of pleasure rack her whole body. I push her through every aftershock, not easing up until she’s limp and breathing raggedly.
Listening to her crumble is one of the most erotic things I’ve ever heard.
I think I could die happy here, between her legs, bringing her over the edge for the rest of our lives.
I’m not sure how to deal with the weight of this foreign sensation of crushing need.
I lift my head and wipe my mouth. Her eyes fight to focus as she looks at me with blown pupils, like she’s never seen me before.
Maybe she hasn’t. Maybe neither of us has.
I’ll worry about that later.
Right now, I have better things to do.
I crawl up her still trembling body, my mouth painting her with kisses, rib to collarbone, throat to lips. Her hands drag me up for a lust-flavored kiss, and her moans against my lips shoot tingles down my spine.
I flip her over until she’s face down on the mattress. “Again.”
Jordan glances over her shoulder with wide eyes as my palm glides up her back. I bend low, my lips brushing against her ear. “Tell me to stop.”
It’s a challenge I expect her to meet.
“Don’t you dare.” She pushes back, pure fire in her eyes as she stares me down from over her shoulder.
My dick throbs. That’s my girl.
My fingers dip between her legs, where I find her swollen and slick and sensitive as hell from what I just gave her. I play with her there, slowly at first, then faster, dragging her back toward that precipice. My other hand roams her body, cupping, teasing, memorizing every line.
She’s wild, writhing against my grip, helpless to do anything but chase what I offer.
Her second orgasm smashes through her. She buries her face in the pillow while her body shudders so violently, I brace her hips to keep her steady. The sight and sound rip right through me.
I never want to stop. I want to be her last thought before she blacks out.
Her pleasure is my pleasure.
The more I wreck her, the better I feel. Not because of power or mind games. But because of the raw, primal satisfaction of owning her bliss.
Everything she’s experiencing, I’m giving to her.
And I’m feeling generous.
She’s still dazed and spasming—eyes glassy, lips mauled, breasts swollen and taunting—when I roll her boneless body over.
She looks totally ruined and fucking perfect.
I line my cock up at her entrance, ready to fully claim what’s already mine.
Her eyes find mine, and she brushes my cheek with her thumb in an achingly gentle gesture.
“Kirill.” My name from her mouth means the world.
She lifts her hips, silently begging for me.
So I give her what she asks for.
And then I lose myself completely.