Chapter 8 #2
“You expect me to fall back asleep after what you just said?” He jerked his hands away. “You killed my husband, stalk me every day, and now accuse me of attempting suicide. What exactly about that screams that you like me? I don’t have a clue what mind games you are playing, but you’re sick!”
“Maybe I am, but it doesn’t change the way I feel. Do you know I almost kissed you just now?”
He barked out a laugh. “Here? In the bed I shared with my husband?”
I couldn’t take it anymore. All the reminders that I’d killed his husband scraped across my nerves like broken glass.
God, we already knew it—he knew it, I knew it—so why did he have to keep saying it out loud?
He kept nailing the point into my skull that the history between us made me unsuitable for him.
Why couldn’t he be like Wren, who’d eventually forgiven Maxim for deceiving him? Maxim might have had to take Wren hostage before it happened, but I didn’t think I would win any favors with Leo if I did that. He was more mature than Wren. He should be able to reason that we had no choice.
Bradley threatened Maxim, leaving us with no option but to kill him. Would he have died if he had let go of his resentment for Maxim because of what happened to his father? They could have lived a long and happy life together if his husband had valued him more than a ghost.
“Tell me, Sergei. Where do you get the nerve to sit on the bed I shared with my—”
Before I could think better of it, I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his. It solved two problems at once: it shut him up, and it finally answered the question that had been driving me insane for weeks.
What Leo Cavanagh tasted like—hatred and bitterness with the barest hint of hope.
For a split second, my brain stopped working.
I was kissing Leo.
And holy shit, he wasn’t pushing me away.
He just froze beneath me, his body going perfectly still as if the contact had stunned him. His fingers curled into the front of my shirt, gripping the fabric tightly like he needed something to hold on to while his brain caught up with what was happening.
That was all the invitation I needed.
Slowly, carefully, I moved my mouth against his, learning the shape of him the way a sommelier appreciated fine wine.
His lips were softer than I expected, warm and slightly parted from the surprise of the moment.
I took my time, brushing my mouth over his again and again, committing every detail to memory.
The softness.
The warmth.
The faint hitch of his breath against my cheek.
Leo still hadn’t kissed me back, but he hadn’t told me to stop either.
My hand slid up to cradle the back of his neck as I deepened the kiss slightly, tilting my head to taste him properly.
The small movement drew a quiet sound from him—barely more than an exhale—and the vibration of it shot straight through my chest.
God.
I nipped gently at his bottom lip, and Leo groaned. The sound was low and involuntary, and the second it left his mouth, something inside him seemed to snap into place. His hand tightened in my shirt, pulling me closer as his lips moved against mine with sudden heat.
He was kissing me back—hard.
The kiss turned hungry almost instantly. Leo’s fingers slid into my hair, gripping tight as he tilted his head and opened his mouth against mine. The quiet room filled with the soft sounds of breathing and the occasional muffled moan, which neither of us seemed capable of holding back.
My pulse pounded in my ears as I shifted closer, hovering over him, my body responding far too eagerly to the man beneath me. Leo tugged at my shirt, dragging me fully down until I was sprawled on top of him.
The moment our hips brushed together, everything went to hell. My cock went from zero to ten instantly. He shoved a hand between our bodies, trailing it up my chest until he had me by the neck and took control of the kiss.
Oh fuck, he had me in the palms of his hands.
If he wanted anything from me—anything—that was the moment he should have asked for it, and I couldn’t have said no.
I wasn’t proud of it, but I would have served up Maxim’s head on a platter so fast. It wasn’t every day I got into bed with a man who seemed to know my needs without me having to communicate them.
Normally, other men took one look at me and assumed.
They assumed I preferred to top. They assumed I was dominant.
They assumed I was more experienced than I actually was.
And who wouldn’t? I was a six-foot-four man built like a gladiator with a presence that intimidated most people.
It was logical they thought I would be the same in bed.
They were wrong. In the bedroom, I preferred giving up all control, and once other men learned that, they never quite masked their disappointment sufficiently.
So I’d taken to hiring men whenever I wanted to have sex.
Men who knew from the get-go what I wanted because it was spelled out as a transaction.
Leo arched his hips up, and feeling his erection against mine lit up every nerve ending in my body. The tingle spread upward, pinching my nipples into hard, sensitive points against my T-shirt.
“Fuck!” Leo tore his lips away from mine, his pupils blown wide. “You weren’t joking. You’re really into me?”