8. Emma
EMMA
The kiss is fire and fury, all teeth and desperation. Artur’s mouth moves against mine with a hunger that matches my own, and for a moment I forget everything except the feel of him. The taste of him. The way his hands grip my waist like he owns me.
Then reality crashes back.
I shove hard against his chest, breaking the kiss. He releases me immediately, stepping back with his hands raised, but his dark eyes are still heated, still locked on me like I’m something he wants to devour.
“Don’t.” My voice comes out sharp as a blade. “Don’t you dare think you can do that again.”
“Don’t what?” His lips curve into that infuriating crooked smile. “Kiss you? You kissed me back, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me that!” I’m furious with myself more than him. Furious that my body responded, that heat still pools low in my belly, and that part of me wants to close the distance between us again. Furious at his arrogance. His absolute certainty that he can touch me whenever he wants.
“You think you can just take whatever you want?” I step forward. “You think because you threw money around at some sick auction, you get to put your hands on me whenever the mood strikes?”
His smile vanishes. “You’ve been pushing every boundary since you got here. Testing us. Provoking us at every fucking opportunity.”
“I’m not provoking anything.”
“Bullshit.” He moves closer. “You walk around this estate like you’re daring us to react. You look at us like you want to either kill us or fuck us, and you know damn well which one your body’s choosing.”
Heat floods my face. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “Then why are you still standing here?”
I should slap him. Should tell him to go to hell. Should remember every reason this is wrong.
Instead, I grab his shirt and pull him to me.
This kiss is different. Harder. More desperate. His hands are in my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth claims mine with a possessiveness that is incredibly hot. It ignites something primal, something I’ve kept locked away for too long.
My back hits the wall. I don’t remember moving, but suddenly he’s pressed against me, one hand braced beside my head while the other grips my hip. His body is solid muscle and heat, and when he grinds against me, I can’t stop the sound that escapes my throat.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. The thought flashes through my mind even as my hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. I’m an FBI agent. He’s a criminal. A killer. Everything I’ve trained for, everything I believe in, should make me push him away.
But I don’t.
His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and I gasp.
My head falls back against the wall, giving him better access.
His tongue traces a path down to my collarbone while his hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my ribs.
Every touch sends electricity through me, short-circuiting my brain.
His hands move higher, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my bra. I arch into the touch, shameless, desperate. He makes a sound low in his throat and then he’s pulling my shirt over my head. The fabric catches on my arms and I help him, frantic now, needing his hands on my skin.
Cool air hits my exposed flesh for a second before his mouth is there, hot and demanding.
He traces the edge of my bra with his tongue while his fingers work the clasp.
When it falls away, he pulls back just enough to look at me.
The heat in his eyes is almost unbearable. Then his mouth closes over my nipple.
I cry out, my hands flying to his hair, holding him there. His tongue circles and flicks while his hand palms my other breast, his thumb rubbing over the peak until I’m trembling. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Too much and not enough all at once.
My hands fumble for his belt, shaking so badly I can barely work the buckle.
He helps me, his movements more controlled than mine but no less urgent.
When I finally get it open and slide my hand inside his pants, he groans against my breast. He’s hard and thick in my palm, and the feel of him makes my core clench with need.
He pulls back, yanking his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. His chest is all defined muscle and scattered scars, evidence of a violent life. I should be repulsed. Should be thinking about what those scars represent.
Instead, I run my hands over them, tracing the raised lines with my fingers. His skin is hot, his muscles flexing under my touch. He watches me with dark, hungry eyes, letting me explore for a moment before his patience breaks.
He hooks his fingers in my waistband and pulls. My pants and underwear slide down my legs, and I kick them away. Then he’s lifting me, his hands gripping my thighs as my legs wrap around his waist automatically. The wall is cold against my bare back, but he’s fire everywhere else.
When he positions himself at my entrance, I feel the thick head of him pressing against me. My breath catches. This is it. The point of no return. Once this happens, I can’t take it back. Can’t pretend it didn’t happen. Can’t lie to myself anymore about what I want.
He pushes inside slowly, and I have to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. He fills me completely, and for a moment we both just freeze, adjusting to the sensation.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my ear. “You feel incredible.”
Then he moves.
The first thrust steals my breath. The second makes me moan.
By the third, I’m clinging to him, my nails digging into his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm.
Each stroke hits something deep inside me, sending waves of pleasure through my entire body.
The wall is hard against my back, his hands are bruising on my thighs, and I don’t care.
I want the marks. Want proof tomorrow that this was real.
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my sounds as he drives into me harder, faster. One hand slides between us, his thumb finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and I nearly come apart right there.
“Let go,” he growls against my lips. “I want to feel you come around me.”
The command in his voice pushes me over the edge.
The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, and I have to press my face into his neck to muffle my cry.
My whole body convulses, inner muscles clenching around him as pleasure whites out my vision.
For a moment, there’s nothing but sensation. No guilt. No shame. No duty. Just this.
He follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the heat of his release, and it triggers another smaller wave of pleasure that leaves me shaking.
For a moment, we just stay like that, breathing hard, tangled together against the wall.
Then reality crashes back in.
He sets me down carefully, and I immediately feel the loss of his warmth. My legs are shaky, and I have to brace myself against the wall while I try to remember how to think.
Artur steps back, his expression shifting. The heat in his eyes cools, replaced by something calculating. Controlled. It’s like watching him put on a mask, and it’s more unsettling than anything that just happened between us.
He retrieves his clothes with methodical precision, dressing without a word. I do the same, my hands trembling slightly as I button my shirt. The shift is jarring. Minutes ago, he was all heat and hunger. Now he’s cold, distant. Like the man who just had me against the wall doesn’t exist anymore.
“I’ll walk you back,” he says, already moving toward the door.
I follow because I don’t know what else to do. The hallway is empty, our footsteps echoing off the marble floors. Neither of us speaks.
“You should know something,” he says as we approach the secured wing. His tone is conversational, but there’s steel underneath. “This estate is locked down tighter than anything you’ve dealt with before. Every entrance, every exit. Cameras everywhere. Guards on rotation twenty-four seven.”
It’s almost word for word what Rurik told me. A warning. A reminder that I’m trapped here, no matter what just happened between us.
“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” I lie. Yet, I add silently.
“Good.” He stops at the entrance to the wing, his hand on the security panel. “Because if you try, you won’t make it past the first checkpoint. And I’d hate to see what would happen if you did.”
The threat is clear. Whatever just happened between us doesn’t change anything. I’m still a prisoner here. Still at their mercy.
He’s about to say something else when alarms suddenly blare through the estate. Loud, piercing, impossible to ignore.
Artur’s entire demeanor changes in an instant. The cold professionalism vanishes, replaced by something lethal. His hand goes to the gun I didn’t realize he was carrying.
Armed guards rush past us, weapons drawn, heading toward the outer gates. Their boots thunder against the floor, and I can hear shouting in Russian from somewhere deeper in the estate.
“Come,” Artur orders, grabbing my arm.
“What’s happening?”
“Something triggered the perimeter.” He doesn’t look back as he yanks me along. “Don’t move from this spot.”
He deposits me in my room, the alarm shrill in our ears, then he’s gone, disappearing down the hallway with the other guards, leaving me alone with the wailing alarms and the sudden, terrifying certainty that whatever’s happening it’s not good.