Chapter 27
Jordan
The custom suit transforms Kirill.
My gaze keeps returning to him like a magnet drawn to iron, and with each glance, my pulse quickens. It’s not that he looks better, because Kirill’s carved physique and features always steal my breath with how they exude danger and desire. Now, though, he’s weaponized in a new way.
After securing my laptop and bag in the provided safe, he hovers in the center of our new hotel room at the St. Regis, a base secured with a few quiet words and whatever black magic he conjures with hotel managers.
Vertical wooden slats, a raised ceiling with recessed lights, and windows make up the outside wall and offer a panoramic view of Chicago.
The window and wood in the gigantic suite create perfect soundproofing.
Good thing, too, or our voices would ring off the glass tables, rug-accented marble floors, and the giant impressionist framed art piece over the bed.
Kirill stands near the desk set against an interior wall, inspecting his reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door like he doesn’t recognize himself.
The fine wool hugs his torso, and the stark white of the dress shirt forms an ideal canvas for the deadly allure of his eyes. His expression could freeze blood, and he keeps rolling his shoulders like he considers the fabric a cage.
I can only think of how desperately I want to strip every perfectly tailored inch off him, hence why I stationed myself as far from the pristine white king-sized bed and leather upholstered couch in the middle of the room as possible.
I hover near a matching leather ottoman that’s located at a much safer distance.
Swallowing hard, I order my mind back to the mission and away from how the bespoke pants frame his thighs. How his hands appear darker and more dangerous against the crisp white cuffs.
“You look like you’re about to assassinate someone.” I use a light, casual tone that doesn’t belie the heat pooling low in my belly.
He tugs at his collar and turns to the side. “I might.”
The mental image of a shark wearing a collar pops into my head, forcing me to suppress a giggle.
“No, you’re going to smile and be polite. My stepfather is one of the insiders. He’s all money, privilege, and power. If he suspects a mafia guy just waltzed into his home?” I shake my head, the possibilities too dark to name. My throat tightens. “And my mother? No. You have to blend in.”
Against my better judgment, I approach and slowly circle him, drinking in every inch, attempting to see him through my mother’s eyes. His posture is too alert, too ready, like a predator who refuses to bother disguising himself as anything else.
“Okay. Your name’s not Kirill. It’s ‘Ken.’”
His expression blanks. “Ken?”
“Kirill stands out. No one knows a Kirill. Everyone knows a Ken. Ken Barlow. You’re in…commodities. From out of town.” I keep circling, watching him for any sign of yielding. “And you find everything utterly fascinating.”
Doubts needle my stomach. Can he do this? Or is this the equivalent of asking a shark to pass as a goldfish?
I can’t dim his intensity or soften those edges.
He’s everything that doesn’t belong in my mother’s pristine world.
“Can you smile? Like, you know, just a regular, happy smile?”
God help him, he tries. His lips peel back to bare his teeth while his eyes remain cold and calculating. No warmth at all.
I cringe and backpedal. “Okay, no smiling. Just try to appear a little less murder-y.” I inch closer to straighten his bow tie and smooth the lapels of his jacket.
He stiffens under my touch, not quite pulling away, but not yielding. His pulse beats at his throat, visible just above his collar. “This ‘Ken Barlow,’ he doesn’t shake hands, does he?”
“We’ll work on that.” I finish my adjustments as I try to ignore how my own pulse jumps with each touch. I’m balancing on my toes, my body almost flush against his. “There. You look like a magnificent…” I have no reason to lie, “…shark.”
I start to create some space between us before I do something stupid, like press my mouth to the vein at his throat, but his hands shoot out and clamp around my wrists. Not hard enough to hurt, but refusing to let me retreat.
His deep, penetrating eyes burn with an intensity I can’t name. He’s no Ken Barlow, but he’s one-thousand-percent Kirill.
I wait for him to tug me closer, to take what I’ve been silently offering all day.
Instead, he backs away, breaks contact, and strides toward the bed.
I stand frozen as he methodically undoes his bow tie—the perfect one I just fixed—and tosses the fabric aside.
He removes his jacket, each motion precise and deliberate. His eyes never leave mine as he continues stripping, layers falling away and revealing the body I know too well.
And dropping tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of wool and linen on the floor to wrinkle.
My mouth goes dry as he stretches out on the bed in just his pants, all lean muscle, scars, and intent. “What are you doing?”
Kirill relaxes on his elbows, the picture of arrogant ease, though a line of tension hums through him. “You’ve been eye-fucking me for hours. Now I’m giving you a chance to do it for real.”
Heat floods my face. “I haven’t—”
“You have. For so long. You surely have more than a few ideas of what you want to do to me.” His eyes darken. “So you’re in charge this time.”
My stomach drops.
Embarrassment and terror tangle with desperate desire. Kirill has so much more experience than I do. What if I’m terrible? What if I come across as a prude? Or worse, what if I’m just…bad at this? I can’t move as fast as he can. He tosses me around like a sack and thrusts like a jackhammer.
I can’t possibly stack up against him.
“I…like everything you do.” I retreat a step. “Whatever you want is good with me—”
“You’re in charge.” Somehow, he manages to state even that like an order. He reclines more, all masculine magnificence, and crosses those powerful arms behind his head. “Attract my abundance.”
A real, unexpected laugh bursts from me, lessening the strain just a little.
I inch forward, drawn to him like I have been since day one. “Why are we doing this?”
As I approach, his eyes devour me. “Because you’re made of steel.” His lips curl into a sly, genuine smile. Figures he’d manage one now. “Goofy steel, but steel nonetheless. And you don’t know it. You don’t use your power. So, I want to see what you’re capable of.”
I frown at “goofy steel,” but I can hardly deny the thrill that rockets through me at his explanation. Even if for just a moment, I want to prove him wrong and shake that iron control.
Then I remember all the times he’s teased me, all the pleasure-filled torment he’s subjected me to.
So what if I’m not as experienced? I’ve seen the way he regards me.
He wants me to be in charge?
Fine.
Shoring up my courage, I begin to strip in front of him.
As my clothes fall away, his eyes consume every inch of my skin, causing my blood to boil with desire and anticipation.
The air in the room crackles with electricity as I stand before him completely bare. Vulnerable yet empowered by his ravenous expression.
When I climb onto the bed, our gazes lock in a silent challenge.
He lies here, clad in only his pants, his erection straining against the fabric as a testament to his arousal. Awaiting my next move.
I straddle his hips and grind against the bulge in his pants.
“Fuck,” he gasps.
While his entire body tenses, pleasure bursts through me. In his fight to keep still, he clenches and relaxes his fists.
“Your energies are very chaotic right now.” Even as my pulse gallops and I wonder what the hell I’m actually doing, I can’t resist teasing him a little.
Only Kirill could push me so far outside my comfort zone.
The things I do for this guy…
My heart hammers against my ribs as I savor this rare reversal of roles. Usually, he dictates every caress, but this time, the power I hold causes a surge of wetness between my thighs.
Tonight, we’ll explore each other’s limits together.
His quickened breathing and dilated pupils give me the confidence to continue crawling up the bed until I’m straddling his face.
A guttural groan escapes him, spurring me on.
“I want your mouth on me. I want your tongue…right…there.” I point to my aching clit without breaking eye contact.
The moment the words tumble out of my mouth, his hands clamp around my thighs.
Kirill yanks me down until I’m right where he wants me and then buries his face, inhaling audibly through his nose and parting my lips with his tongue.
He lashes my clit with relentless swipes, ending each one with a strong suck. Need coils in me, sending shockwaves up my body.
It’s not gentle.
Or slow.
He’s daring me, challenging me, testing to see how much I can take.
My mind can’t decide who’s really in command as I submit to the hot, deliberate pressure of his mouth on my pussy.
Searching for anything steady as he plays me like a fiddle, I clutch at the carved headboard behind his head. My thighs tremble, but he holds me firm, his grip simultaneously bruising and worshipful.
His tongue is pure sin as he maps the exact coordinates of my pleasure, each flick, each slow drag calculated to drive me out of my mind.
Tension builds as ragged gasps spill from my mouth, little desperate noises that would embarrass me if I had any self-consciousness left.
For a fleeting moment, I realize this time is different.
He’s done this to me before, sure, but never with me on top, and never in a way that leaves me exposed and untouchable, the goddess at the altar and the sacrifice all at once.
I’m the one who gets to peer down and watch his face and the feral devotion in his eyes each time he glances up through those impossibly dark lashes.
Kirill changed to give me this, and the head-spinning, heart-fluttering power he offers terrifies me.
Warmth blooms in my chest. The sensation hovers somewhere between lust and love, and I don’t know how to handle the weight of it.
I feel like too much for my own body, as if I might ignite and explode at any moment.
I’m climbing so fast that the edges of my vision blur with the force.
He can tell. Of course he can. He switches tactics, slows down, tortures me with featherlight licks and then hard, hungry kisses.
In the lightning rod of my body, every nerve ending pleads for mercy.
He gives none.
He prolongs my pleasure, savoring my helplessness, until I’m panting and shuddering, all my thoughts giving way to mindless begging.
Just as I near the precipice, babbling and weeping with the need to shatter, he stops.