Chapter 16 - Keira
He led me down the hallway toward his bedroom, and with every step I felt the weight of what I was doing pressing against my chest. Not regret—not yet, maybe not ever—but the awareness that I was crossing a line I couldn't uncross. That after tonight, whatever we were would be something different.
His hand was warm around mine. Steady. He wasn't rushing, wasn't pulling me along like a prize he'd won. He was giving me time to change my mind.
I didn't want to change my mind.
His bedroom was larger than the guest room I'd been staying in, dominated by a massive bed with dark linens and a view of the city that stretched for miles. He'd left the curtains open, and Manhattan glittered beyond the glass like a scattered handful of diamonds.
He closed the door behind us, and the click of the latch was somehow louder than it should have been. Final. Definitive.
"Keira." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "Last chance to walk away."
I turned to face him. He was standing with his back against the door, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The charming mask was gone. What remained was something rawer. Hungrier.
"I don't want to walk away," I said.
"Good."
He moved toward me, and there was nothing gentle about it. One moment, he was across the room; the next, his hands were in my hair, tilting my head back, his mouth claiming mine with a ferocity that stole my breath.
This wasn't like the kiss in the kitchen—tentative, questioning, both of us testing the waters. This was a statement. A declaration. His tongue swept against mine, demanding entrance, and I opened for him without thinking, my hands fisting in the front of his shirt.
He kissed me like he was starving for it.
Like he'd been holding himself back for weeks and had finally snapped the leash.
His teeth caught my lower lip, tugging, and the sharp sting of it made me gasp.
He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, one hand still tangled in my hair while the other slid down my spine to grip my hip.
I could feel him hard against my stomach. The evidence of how much he wanted this—wanted me—sent a rush of heat through my core that made my knees unsteady.
He walked me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed. I sat down hard, looking up at him, and he stood over me for a moment, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with want.
"I've been thinking about this," he said. "Since that first session. Sitting in your office, watching you ask questions, wondering what it would take to make you lose that perfect composure."
"And now?"
"Now I'm going to find out."
He pushed me back onto the bed, following me down, his body covering mine.
The weight of him was overwhelming—solid muscle, controlled strength, the heat of him seeping through my clothes.
I arched up against him instinctively, seeking friction, and he groaned, a low sound that vibrated through my chest.
His mouth found my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below my ear. I gasped, my hands clutching at his shoulders, and felt him smile against my throat.
"There," he murmured. "That's what I wanted."
He bit down—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make me jolt beneath him—and then soothed the sting with his tongue. The combination of sensations made me dizzy. Made me want more.
His hands went to the buttons of my blouse, and he worked them open with a patience that belied the hunger in his eyes. Each button revealed more skin, and he followed the path with his mouth—kissing the hollow of my throat, the swell of my collarbone, the valley between my breasts.
"Rodion—"
"Patience."
"I don't have any patience."
"Then you'll learn."
He pulled back long enough to strip off his own shirt, and I took the opportunity to look at him.
Really look. Broad shoulders, defined chest, the kind of body that came from discipline rather than vanity.
Scars too—a puckered line along his ribs, a starburst of white tissue on his shoulder.
Evidence of a life I was only beginning to understand.
I reached up and traced the scar on his shoulder. "What happened here?"
"Knife fight. Fifteen years ago. I was young and stupid."
"And this one?" My fingers moved to his ribs.
"Bullet graze. Less stupid that time, just unlucky." He caught my hand, pressed a kiss to my palm. "We all have scars. Some are just more visible than others."
He lowered himself again, his mouth finding the curve of my breast above my bra. I arched into him, wanting more, wanting everything. He obliged, reaching behind me to unhook the clasp with practiced ease, pulling the fabric away until I was bare beneath him.
For a moment, he just looked. His gaze traveled over me like a physical touch, leaving heat in its wake. I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity—like he could see past my skin to something deeper, something I'd spent years trying to hide.
"Beautiful," he said, and the word was almost reverent.
Then his mouth closed over my nipple, and I stopped thinking entirely.
He sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, and my back bowed off the bed. His hand found my other breast, kneading, pinching, matching the rhythm of his mouth with his fingers. The dual sensation was almost too much—pleasure spiking through me in waves that left me gasping.
"More," I heard myself say. "Please."
He switched his attention to the other breast, giving it the same thorough treatment while his hand slid down my stomach. His fingers traced the waistband of my pants, teasing, not quite dipping below.
"Tell me what you want," he said against my skin.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
I looked down at him—his dark eyes watching me, his mouth wet and swollen from kissing me, his hand hovering just above where I needed him most. The vulnerability of saying it out loud warred with the desperate need clawing at my insides.
Need won.
"Touch me," I said. "Please. I need you to touch me."
His smile was wicked. "Since you asked so nicely."
He unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down along with my underwear, leaving me completely naked beneath him. The cool air hit my heated skin, and I shivered—not from cold, but from anticipation.
He settled between my thighs, his shoulders spreading them wide, and looked up at me one more time. "Watch me," he said. "I want you to see what I'm doing to you."
Then he lowered his head and put his mouth on me.
The first stroke of his tongue made me cry out. He licked through my folds in one long, slow movement, gathering my wetness, learning my taste. Then he did it again. And again. Each pass deliberate, thorough, devastating.
"God," I breathed. "Rodion—"
He hummed against me, and the vibration made my hips jerk. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open, holding me still while he worked me with his tongue. He circled my clit without touching it directly, teasing the edges, building the tension until I was writhing beneath him.
"Please," I begged. "Right there—please—"
He ignored my pleas. Instead, he slid lower, his tongue pressing into my entrance, fucking me with slow, shallow thrusts that made me see stars. I reached down and grabbed his hair, trying to direct him where I needed him most, but he resisted, continuing his methodical exploration.
"Patience," he murmured against my flesh, and I could have screamed.
Just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, he finally—finally—closed his lips around my clit and sucked.
The orgasm hit me like a freight train. I came with a sob, my whole body convulsing, my thighs clamping around his head. He worked me through it, his tongue never stopping, drawing out the pleasure until I was shaking and gasping and pushing at his shoulders because it was too much, too intense.
He pulled back, his chin glistening with my arousal, and smiled up at me. "That's one."
"One?"
"I'm not done with you yet."
Before I could respond, he flipped me over onto my stomach. The sudden change in position startled me, but before I could protest, his mouth was on my neck, his body pressing me into the mattress.
"Is this okay?" he asked against my ear.
"Yes."
"Tell me if it's not."
"It's okay. It's—" I lost the ability to form words as his hand slid beneath me, finding my still-sensitive clit and rubbing in slow circles.
I was face down on the bed, completely at his mercy, and instead of feeling vulnerable, I felt... free. Like I could let go of everything—the fear, the control, the constant vigilance—and just feel.
He worked me back up slowly, his fingers circling and stroking while his mouth explored my neck, my shoulders, the curve of my spine. I could feel him hard against my ass, the evidence of his restraint, and I pushed back against him, wanting more.
"Greedy," he murmured, but there was approval in his voice.
I heard the rustle of fabric, the crinkle of a wrapper, and then he was positioning himself behind me, lifting my hips, spreading my thighs wider.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yes. God, yes."
He thrust into me in one smooth stroke.
The angle was different like this—deeper, more intense. I cried out into the pillow as he filled me completely, stretching me in ways that bordered on painful but didn't quite cross the line.
He gave me a moment to adjust, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. I could feel him trembling with the effort of holding still, and the knowledge that he was as desperate as I was made something hot and satisfied unfurl in my chest.
"Move," I said. "Please move."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He started slow—long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive inch of me. Each thrust pushed me forward on the bed, and I braced my hands against the headboard, pushing back to meet him.
"Harder," I gasped.
He obliged. His hips snapped against me, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. One hand left my hip to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back, and the slight sting of it only added to the pleasure building in my core.
"You feel incredible," he growled. "So tight. So wet. Like you were made for me."
I couldn't respond. Could barely think. There was only sensation—his body driving into mine, his hand in my hair, the relentless pressure against that spot inside me that made everything go white at the edges.
He released my hair and wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me up so my back was against his chest. The new angle was even deeper, even more intense, and I moaned as he continued to thrust into me from behind.
His hand found my breast, squeezing, pinching my nipple. His other hand slid between my legs, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing in tight circles.
"Come for me," he said against my ear. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
The words, combined with his fingers and his relentless thrusts, pushed me over the edge. I shattered in his arms, my inner walls clamping down on him, his name tearing from my throat in a broken cry.
He fucked me through it, his rhythm growing erratic as my orgasm triggered his own. I felt him pulse inside me, heard him groan my name, and then he was collapsing forward, taking me with him, both of us sprawled across the ruined sheets.
We lay there for a long moment, tangled together, both of us breathing hard. I could feel his heart hammering against my back, keeping time with my own.
Eventually, he rolled to the side, pulling me with him so we were facing each other. His hand came up to brush the hair from my face, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I think so." I laughed, a shaky sound. "I'm not sure I can feel my legs."
"That's a good sign."
"Is it?"
"It means I did my job."
I swatted his chest, and he caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The playfulness faded, replaced by something more serious.
"I meant what I said earlier," he said quietly. "I want to find out what comes next. With you."
"I know."
"And I know you're not ready to say it back. That's okay. I just wanted you to know that this—" he gestured between us "—wasn't just about sex. Not for me."
I looked at him—this man who'd killed for me, married me, just made love to me with a passion that had left me boneless. This stranger who was somehow becoming something more.
"It wasn't just about sex for me either," I admitted. "I don't know what it was about. But it wasn't just that."
He smiled, and it was the most genuine expression I'd seen on his face. No charm, no performance. Just happiness, simple and unguarded.
"Good," he said. "That's enough for now."
He pulled me closer, tucking me against his chest, and I let him. Let myself be held in a way I hadn't been held in years. Maybe ever.
"Stay," he murmured against my hair. "Don't go back to the guest room tonight."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
I closed my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his body wrapped around mine.
Outside, the city continued its endless hum.
Somewhere out there, the Petrovics were planning their next move.
Cormac was nursing his grudges. A hundred threats were circling, waiting for their moment.
But here, in this bed, with this man, I felt something I hadn't felt in a very long time.
Safe.
It probably wouldn't last. Nothing ever did. But for now, in this moment, it was enough.
More than enough.
I fell asleep in his arms, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't dream of anything at all.