Chapter 23
Kit
Ivan’s words hung in the quiet of the room, heavy with the promise of something I hadn’t realized I was starving for.
I wanted to tell him no. To push, to argue, to point out that every second we waited was a second Mikhail Orlov could use to cover his tracks, to make more threats, to disappear.
My brain, the part of me that had kept me alive and focused for seven years, screamed that this was a mistake.
But my body, the traitorous, exhausted thing that had been carrying my grief like a stone in my chest, had a differing opinion.
When he stepped closer, I didn’t back away.
I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot, my gaze locked with his, my breath caught somewhere between my throat and my lungs.
He raised a hand, not to grab me, but to gently brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek.
The touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the stinging memory of his palm on my bare bottom not so long ago.
“Come here, solnyshko,” he said softly.
It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a command either. It was an invitation. A choice.
I took a single, hesitant step, closing the small distance between us.
His other hand came up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in the loose hair at my nape.
His thumb stroked the sensitive skin there, and a shiver traced a path down my spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the overwhelming, terrifying need to be… held.
He leaned in, and I thought he was going to kiss me the way he had before, with a consuming, demanding heat, but he didn’t. He pressed a soft, gentle kiss to my forehead. It was tender, reverent, and so much more disarming than any passionate assault could have been.
“Tonight is ours,” he murmured against my skin. “It’s time for Daddy to take care of his little girl.”
My breath hitched. He took my hand, his grip firm but gentle, and led me away from the desk, away from the glowing screens and the ghost of my brother. He led me down the short hall and into his bathroom.
It was all dark stone and chrome, but the space felt intimate and private. He didn’t let go of my hand as he reached into the glass-walled shower and turned on the water. The spray hit the tile with a steady, hypnotic hiss, steam beginning to fog the glass almost immediately.
He turned back to me, his pale eyes watching me intently, a universe of understanding in their depths.
He didn’t ask for permission. He simply reached for the hem of my sweater and lifted it over my head.
The cool air touched my skin for a moment before it was replaced by the warmth of his hands as he unclasped my bra and slid it down my arms. I stood before him, exposed in a way that went far beyond the physical.
His fingers found the waistband of my leggings, and he slowly drew them down my legs, along with my panties. I should have felt vulnerable, ashamed, but I didn’t. I felt… seen. Every flaw, every scar, every ounce of exhaustion, he saw it all and didn’t turn away.
He took a long look at me, and I felt my cheeks heat, but I didn’t hide from him. For some reason, I didn’t feel the need to.
Then he undressed and I tried not to feast on the sight of his lean muscles, firm and sculpted in all the right places.
And then there was his cock.
It was already hard for me. It was long and thick, and it made my thighs clench. It would probably hurt when he fucked me, but in the best kind of way.
When he fucked me.
His knowing gaze searched mine and I looked away, my cheeks flushing brighter at the direction of my thoughts.
With a gentle sort of firmness, he guided me into the shower, the warm water cascading over my shoulders and back and I sighed with welcome relief.
I leaned my head against the cool tile, closing my eyes and letting the heat soak into my tired muscles.
I felt him move behind me, then the scent of clean, expensive soap filled the air.
He started at my neck, his fingers strong and sure as he worked the soap into a lather, massaging the tense muscles there.
I moaned, unable to help it. His hands moved down my arms, across my shoulders, over my back.
When his hands moved to my breasts, I arched into his touch, my nipples tightening in response.
He washed my stomach, my hips, my thighs, his touch never faltering. His touch made my core flutter with needy warmth and I tried not to think about it too closely.
He was taking care of me, and for the first time in my life, I let myself be taken care of.
When he was done, he turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping a large, fluffy towel around me before grabbing one for himself. He dried me off with gentle, methodical strokes, paying special attention to my still-sensitive bottom, his touch so light it was almost a caress.
Then he scooped me up into his arms.
I gasped, my arms automatically going around his neck. “Ivan, what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer, just carried me out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, laying me down gently on the bed. He left for a moment, returning with a bottle of lotion, and knelt beside me.
“Turn over. Onto your belly,” he said softly.
I did with a bit of trepidation, my heart pounding in my chest. He straddled my thighs, not putting all of his weight on me, and poured some of the lotion into his hands.
He started massaging my shoulders, working the lotion into my skin, his hands finding every knot, every point of tension.
I melted into the mattress, a soft sigh escaping my lips.
He worked his way down my back, then to my bottom, his touch so gentle, it made my eyes burn.
Then he moved down the backs of my legs.
When he was done, he urged me to turn back over. He finished with the fronts of my legs, my arms, my hands, taking each finger and massaging it gently. He was so thorough, so attentive, it was like he was trying to memorize every inch of me.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my lips, a slow, deep kiss that made me feel alive.
He pulled back and I could see the evidence of his desire for me in the depths of his eyes, in the hard length of him pressing against my thigh. I swallowed hard and looked up into his gaze and then, ever so slightly, tilted my hips up.
He watched me for a long second, and then he lowered himself down on top of me. He was all hard muscle and raw power, but he held himself above me, as if afraid he might break me. He kissed me again, a slow, drugging kiss that left me breathless and wanting more.
One of his hands found my breast, thumb circling my nipple until I was arching up into him. He kissed his way down my neck, across my collarbone, taking my other breast into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak until I was gasping, my hands fisting in the sheets.
“Ivan,” I breathed.
He looked up at me. “What do you need, solnyshko?”
“You,” I whispered. “I need you.”
He lowered his head. His mouth found the inside of my thigh, and I stopped thinking about seventeen things simultaneously, which was a personal record.
He worked his way up with the thoroughness he applied to everything, unhurried, mapping the territory with his lips and the edge of his teeth and the flat of his tongue, and I was gripping the sheet before he had even reached the center of me because the anticipation alone was a specific kind of undoing.
When his mouth finally found my clit, I made a sound I was not going to be documenting in any file.
He didn’t acknowledge it.
He simply kept going with the full and patient attention of a man who had decided this was the next thing and was going to do it correctly.
His hands held my thighs open, not roughly, just absolutely, and he worked me with his tongue in long, very intentional strokes and shorter, more precise ones that made my hips buck against his hands.
I found his hair with my fingers and held on for dear life.
He did not stop, slow, or break rhythm and I appreciated that more than I had words for in the moment.
My pleasure grew and grew until I was so close to the edge that I could almost taste it and then I was coming.
The first orgasm rolled through me in a long, tight wave and I said something that wasn’t quite his name and wasn’t quite coherent, gripped his hair tighter, and he held me through it without stopping.
I was still catching my breath when his tongue found me again.
“Ivan—”
“Once more,” he said against me.
“I can’t—”
He slid two fingers inside me, slowly, crooking forward with intent, and every coherent objection I had immediately resigned and went home.
“Kit.”
Just my name.
His fingers and his tongue moved and I stopped managing what sounds I was making entirely.
In no time at all, my second climax hit hard, a more intense and immediate wave than the first, my back arching off the bed, his name coming out of me in a way that left no ambiguity about what was happening.
He kept his fingers moving through it and worked me past the peak and the aftershock, until I was pulling at his shoulder because I needed him to stop or I was going to lose control and come a third time and I didn’t know what to do with that.
He looked up.
His mouth was wet and his eyes were very dark, and his expression had the specific quality of a man who had already decided something and was not going to be talked out of it.
I didn’t try.
I reached for him and pulled him up the length of my body and he came, settling his weight over me in a way that was the most natural and devastating thing I had experienced in recent memory.
He was hard against me, and I shifted to feel it and heard the slight change in his breathing that told me his control was not quite as absolute as he made it look.
Good.
Mine wasn’t either.
“Please,” I said.
The word came out plain. Unironic. None of my usual architecture around wanting things.
He stilled.
His eyes met mine.
“Please what.”