Chapter 18
Orien leads me to a five-story red brick building with narrow windows and an iron fire escape winding up the east side.
A thin layer of salt covers the concrete steps leading to the front door to prevent the snow from sticking, and my boots leave perfect prints as I follow him inside and up the narrow stairs to the third floor.
“Watch your step,” he says as he steps inside, flicking on a single overhead light that barely lifts the gloom. “There’s a lip.”
I follow, and my toe catches where he warned, the only sound my sharp intake of breath as I stumble. His hand catches my elbow to steady me and doesn’t let go until I’ve found my balance again.
The loft is bigger than I expected, though not by much.
The living room opens to a kitchen with a used cutting board resting on the counter and a single pan on the stove.
A small round table with two chairs sits near the single window.
The couch across from a flat screen mounted on the wall has no throw pillows, blanket, or decoration of any kind.
A single bedroom sits at the far end, visible through a door left open. The bed inside is made with the covers drawn tight enough to bounce a coin.
I start to map it out the way I’ve been trained, automatic as breathing. One exit. One window facing the street. No decoration. Nothing accumulated. But when the door clicks shut behind me, my body moves before my mind has a chance to stop it.
I turn, cross the three steps between us, and grip the front of Orien’s jacket with both hands. “I don’t want to talk. Make me forget instead.”
Orien takes my wrists in his hands and walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs.
One hand releases my wrist to grip my jaw, tilting my head up. “You want to forget yourself? Then stop thinking.”
His mouth finds mine as his palm cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, holding me where he wants me while his tongue twines around mine.
My hands release his jacket, and my arms drop to my sides.
Orien’s fingers leave my jaw and curl around my throat, his thumb tracing my nape guard before slipping beneath it to find bare skin. The point of contact sends a shiver down my spine, and I gasp into his mouth, my hips jerking forward to meet his thigh.
He breaks the kiss long enough to murmur, “Stop thinking.”
Then his mouth moves to my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear, and my head drops back to give him better access.
His touch trails down my chest to the hem of my shirt, then slips beneath it, his palm spreading across my stomach. The warmth of his skin burns through me, and I arch into the touch, a sound catching in the back of my throat.
“Orien,” I manage, his name coming out ragged.
He raises his head. “Say it again.”
The order settles deep inside me, and my hands come up to slide under his jacket and grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle beneath his shirt. “Orien.”
He purrs, a sound of satisfaction that vibrates through me, and his hand climbs higher, his thumb brushing my nipple. The contact sends heat racing down my spine, and my hips jerk forward again, seeking friction.
The room closes in around me, the air between us charged with a live current I don’t dare name. I want his hands everywhere, want to be touched until nothing remains of the careful distance put in place by my mission.
Orien shoves me harder against the wall as his mouth returns to mine. The kiss takes possession without apology, and I answer it with everything I have, my hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.
I’ve been holding myself back for so long, playing a role built from equal parts truth and lie, that surrender crashes through me in a wave strong enough to leave me shaking. My fingers curl into his shirt, holding on as if he might disappear if I let go.
He won’t. That’s the terrifying, wonderful truth of it. He’s right here, solid and real, and what’s happening between us has nothing to do with missions or infiltration or the family business.
For once, it’s about what I want.
The thought should scare me. Instead, it pulls a sound from my throat, half-laugh, half-sob.
Orien frowns. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Everything. I just...” The sentence falls apart halfway through. “I’m so tired.”
Compassion flickers through Orien. “Then let me take care of you.”
Orien takes my hand and leads me from the wall to the bedroom. The space is as sparse as the living room, with only the necessities. He releases my hand when we reach the bed and turns to me, his fingers finding the buttons of my shirt.
He undresses me without ceremony, and my shirt falls open, then off, his fingers brushing my skin in light touches that leave goose bumps in their wake.
My belt comes next, the leather sliding free with a hiss, followed by the zipper of my trousers. He drops to one knee to help me take off my shoes and step out of them, his hands warm on my calves and ankles, and the simple act of being undressed this way leaves my throat tight.
By the time I stand in only my boxers, my dick strains the front of the fabric, slick gathers at my entrance, and I have to bite my lip to keep a sound from slipping out.
From where he kneels, Orien takes me in from head to toe, fingers dipping beneath the leg of my boxers to brush my inner thighs, and my breath catches at his undisguised desire. “You’re beautiful.”
My hands drop to the collar of his jacket. “Your turn.”
Before I can push it off his shoulders, Orien catches both my wrists and rises to trap them behind my back, forcing my back to arch. The move puts me off balance, and I tip toward the bed.
“Hey,” I protest, the word coming out breathless.
Orien crowds into my space until all I can focus on is him. “You said you wanted to forget yourself.” The words puff across my parted lips. “So, you don’t have to do anything.”
It’s the single hardest thing I’ve ever been asked to do.
My life has been built on control, on never showing my hand, on always being three steps ahead and keeping my thoughts to myself until I’ve determined how much to reveal. Even with Alexei, the one person I’ve never lied to, there are parts of myself I keep tucked away.
But here, now, with Orien’s hands on me, I want to surrender the careful reserve I’ve maintained since I was old enough to understand what it meant to be useful.
So I do.
I stop fighting his grip and let him take my weight, giving him as clear an answer as I can manage.
Orien releases my wrists to cup my cheeks, his thumb brushing my lower lip, and I turn my head to catch the pad between my teeth, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.
A sound rumbles in his chest. “Get on the bed.”
I do as he asks, the comforter cool beneath my overheated skin.
The bed dips as Orien joins me, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my boxers. “Lift up.”
I raise my hips, and he pulls them down and off, leaving me naked on his bed. The cool air brings on a shiver, or maybe it’s the dark desire as he takes me in that causes my stomach to flip.
His hand spreads my thighs with gentle pressure. “Let me see you.”
Heat floods my cheeks, but I spread my legs, giving him access to where I’m already slick and wanting.
As he takes me in, his breath hitches. “Fuck, you’re pretty.”
His fingers work their way up my inner thigh, collecting slick before settling where they belong, and I bite back a whimper. One finger circles my entrance, not pushing in, just testing the heat and wetness there.
“Please,” I say, the word escaping before I can stop it.
As Orien’s finger pushes inside, the stretch burns, and he catches my eyes. “I’ve got you. Just relax.”
Easier said than done. My body wants to rush, to take what it desires, but Orien doesn’t let me. His finger works in and out with a patience that borders on cruelty, his free hand pinning my hip to the bed when I try to push forward.
My thighs tremble. My breath comes in short, ragged pulls. “Another.”
He gives it to me slowly, the second finger joining the first with a deliberateness that leaves nowhere to hide from the stretch. My back bows off the bed when he crooks them, and an embarrassing, desperate sound escapes.
My hips jerk, and his grip on me turns punishing. “Stay still.”
I try, but I can’t stop thrusting at the air when he finds the same place again.
A hand settles flat on my stomach, holding me down with a firmness that leaves no room for argument.
The third finger comes only when my body stops fighting him, the burn deep and bright, and I drag the sheets into my fists and hold on.
The wet sounds in the quiet room are obscene, while my hard dick leaks pre-cum, and he hasn’t touched it once.
He keeps his focus on me the whole time, and when my breath hitches, he slows, fingers gentling, waiting until my body softens again before he resumes.
“You’re doing so well,” he croons. “Just a little more.”
The praise shivers through me, and my thighs tremble with the effort of holding still. Tension coils through me, pleasure building with each careful stroke of his fingers, each brush over my sweet spot blurring my vision.
“Orien,” I manage, his name breaking on a gasp as his fingers curl inside me. “Please. I need—”
“I know,” he says, withdrawing his fingers with careful slowness. “I’ve got you.”
He stands to strip, unhurried, as if he didn’t leave me panting and strung tight on his bed. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his lean, muscular body. His cock juts from the thatch of dark hair at the base, thick and flushed, and my body clenches around nothing at the thought of it filling me.
Orien returns to me without a word, fingers gathering my slick before he fists himself, and my attention catches on the motion, my thighs pressing together instinctively before he spreads them back open.
“Look at me,” he says, tilting my chin up.