CHAPTER 23 #2
"What is this place?" I ask, though we both know it's a stupid question.
"I think you know exactly what this is," he replies, stopping inches from me. "The real question is why you're so interested in exploring it."
His nearness is overwhelming. His scent—leather, wood, whiskey, man—envelops my senses. I should be terrified. I've just discovered concrete evidence of criminal activities. I'm trapped deep in an underground complex with a dangerous man who clearly suspects me.
And yet, my traitorous body responds to him as always: liquid heat spreading through my veins, pulse racing, breath hitching.
"Curiosity," I reply, trying to control my voice. "It's always been my greatest flaw."
"Flaw?" His hand rises, caressing my cheek with a delicacy incongruous with the situation. "Or perhaps a very convenient quality for someone seeking information."
His thumb grazes my lower lip, sending shivers down my spine. His eyes, usually gray like steel, have darkened until they look almost black.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I insist, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
In a fluid movement I barely register, Dimitri grabs me by the waist and drags me toward one of the open cells. He shoves me inside, not with brutality but with undeniable strength, and closes the grate behind us.
The metallic sound of the lock is like a sentence.
We're locked together in a space of barely ten square feet. A narrow cot against one wall is the only furniture. The dim light of a fluorescent bulb in the hall casts dramatic shadows that accentuate the hard angles of his face.
"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice higher than I'd like.
"Creating an environment conducive to honesty," he replies, cornering me against the concrete wall. "No cameras here, no microphones, no witnesses. Just you and me, Sloane."
The way he says my name, like a rough caress, makes something twist inside me.
"Let me out," I demand, though without much conviction.
"Not until you tell me the truth." His hands rest on either side of my head, caging me with his body. "Who are you really? Why are you here? What are you looking for?"
His face is so close I can distinguish the darker specks in his gray irises, count his lashes, feel his warm breath against my lips.
"I'm exactly who I said I am," I reply, my voice firmer. "Sloane Murphy. Harper's friend. Criminal law student."
"And amateur spy, it seems," he adds, his tone deceptively soft. "Who do you work for? The competition? The police? Or maybe the Feds?"
A chill runs down my back. He's too close to the truth.
"I don't work for anyone," I insist, holding his gaze. "I'm just naturally curious."
"You're lying," he says simply. "I see it in your eyes. You're a terrible liar."
His hand descends to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A reminder of what we did in the dressing room, of how I responded to his dominance.
"Dimitri," my voice is barely a whisper. "Don't do this."
"Do what?" His fingers trace the line of my jaw, going down my neck to my collarbone. "Discover your secrets? Or this?"
His mouth covers mine with animal urgency. It's not a tender or exploratory kiss. It's possessive, demanding, punishing. His teeth nip my lower lip with enough force to make a moan escape my throat.
I should resist. I should push him away, slap him, demand my freedom.
Instead, my hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. My body betrays my mind, arching toward him as if it had a will of its own.
Our tongues battle for control, reflecting the power struggle that has always defined our relationship. His hand slides down my waist, descending to my thigh exposed by the slit in the dress. With a fluid motion, he lifts me, forcing me to wrap my legs around his waist.
The position leaves me completely at his mercy, but also allows me to feel his arousal pressing exactly where I need it.
"Tell me to stop," he growls against my lips. "Tell me you don't want this."
I can't. I can't lie, not about this.
In response, I move my hips against his, tearing a guttural groan from him that echoes in the confined space.
His lips leave mine to trace a burning path down my jaw, my neck, the edge of my cleavage. When he gently bites the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, my whole body shudders.
"Dimitri," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. "Please."
"Please what?" he murmurs against my skin, his voice husky with desire. "Please stop? Or please more?"
"More." The word escapes like a plea. "Don't stop."
It's all the permission he needs. With one hand still holding me by the waist, the other goes down to hike my dress up to my hip. His fingers find the edge of my panties, and with a sharp tug, the delicate fabric rips.
The cold air against my exposed skin tears another moan from me. I'm completely open to him, vulnerable in a way I've never experienced.
"Fuck," he growls upon feeling my wetness. "You're soaked."
His fingers explore me with acquired familiarity, immediately finding the spots that make me tremble. Meanwhile, his mouth devours mine, absorbing my moans, my breath, my will.
DIMITRI
I feel her shiver beneath my fingers, her body responding with an honesty her words can't match. She's wet, hot, ready. For me. Despite the lies, despite the secrets, despite the fact that we both know this is insanity.
A distant part of my brain reminds me why we're here: to interrogate her, to uncover her true intentions. To protect my family.
But that rational voice is being drowned out by the roar of blood in my ears, by the searing heat consuming me from the inside out, by the primitive need to possess her completely.
With impatient movements, I undo my belt and unzip my pants. My erection, painfully confined until now, springs free. Sloane looks down, her pupils dilating even further at the sight of me.
"Are you sure?" I ask, my last vestige of self-control manifesting in this single question.
In response, she moves her hips toward me, her center brushing against the tip of my length. The sensation almost makes me lose my mind.
I don't need any further invitation. With a firm thrust, I sink into her.
The fucking world stops.
She's incredibly tight, hot, perfect. As if her body was made specifically for mine. We both stay motionless for an eternal instant, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation, processing the irrevocability of what we're doing.
"Dimitri," she whispers, her voice broken by emotion or pleasure, I'm not sure which.
"Sloane," I reply, her name like a prayer on my lips.
And then I start to move.
Each thrust is deeper than the last, each withdrawal a little death. Our bodies find a primitive rhythm, as ancient as humanity itself. Her legs tighten around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back, urging me to go deeper, harder.
With one hand, I hold her weight against the wall while the other slides between our bodies to find that spot I know will push her over the edge. Her moans intensify, her breathing turning erratic.
"Look at me," I order, needing to see her eyes when she loses control.
Her eyes fly open, revealing that hypnotic green now almost swallowed by her dilated pupils. There's vulnerability in her gaze, a surrender that goes beyond the physical.
Something breaks inside me. A barrier I didn't know existed.
I pick up the pace, each thrust more frantic than the last. I feel her tighten around me, feel her body preparing for the climax.
"Come for me," I growl, my lips against her ear. "Now."
As if my words were a trigger, her body arches, going completely rigid. A silent scream escapes her throat as the contractions of her orgasm clamp around me like a velvet fist.
It's too much. The sight of her face in ecstasy, the feeling of her body surrendering to the pleasure I'm giving her—it all pushes me past the limit of my control.
With one last brutal thrust, I bury myself to the hilt and find my release inside her. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, so intense that for a moment everything disappears: the suspicions, the secrets, the entire world.
Only she exists. Only we exist.
We stay like that, joined, panting, for what feels like an eternity. Her head rests on my shoulder, my face buried in her neck. Our hearts beat in unison, gradually slowing down.
Reality begins to seep back in slowly. We're in a cell. In the bowels of the building. Anyone could come. Anyone could find us like this.
Reluctantly, I pull back just enough to look her in the eyes. I expect to see regret, confusion, maybe even fear.
Instead, I see a reflection of my own bewilderment. Of my own insatiable hunger.
I lower her gently, letting her feet touch the floor. My hands stay on her waist, unable to break the contact completely. Her dress falls back down, covering the evidence of what we just did, except for her ruined panties lying forgotten on the floor.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice rougher than usual.
She nods, apparently not trusting her own voice. A residual blush colors her cheeks, her lips are swollen from my kisses, her hair slightly tousled. I've never seen her look more beautiful.
"This doesn't change anything," she says finally, her eyes getting back some of their usual defiance. "I'm not going to tell you about something that doesn't exist."
An involuntary smile curves my lips. Even now, after what we just shared, she holds her ground.
"Maybe it doesn't change anything," I reply, straightening my clothes. "But it can't be undone either."
I open the cell door, letting her walk out first. As we walk back down the hallway in silence, a certainty crystallizes in my mind.
It doesn't matter who she really is. It doesn't matter who she works for or what she's after.
Sloane Murphy is mine now. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep her.
Even if I have to follow my brother's example and claim her against her will.