Chapter 3
Kara
I told myself I still had a choice.
It was the same lie I’d been repeating since the moment I stepped into this tower of glass and gold. Every breath I took in his orbit made it harder to believe, but I kept whispering it in my head anyway—You can still walk away, Kara.
Except I couldn’t.
Not until I got what I came for.
Somewhere in this penthouse—maybe locked behind that obsidian-paneled office door, maybe hidden inside the electric veins of his network—was the data I needed.
Files tied to a drone shipment, allegedly ‘security models’ destined for a private consortium.
ARCHEON’s intel said otherwise. Modified firmware, blacklisted code, the kind of programming that could turn a city into a pile of ash overnight.
It was supposed to be simple: gain his trust, gain access, exfiltrate the data, vanish. I’d done it before, but Roman Markov wasn’t like the others.
He was standing inches from me now, the dark ocean glinting in his windows behind him. The low jazz had slipped into a slower melody now. His thumb still brushed the hollow of my throat, slow and patient, tracing the rhythm of my heartbeat as if he owned it.
“You’re thinking again,” he said, voice impressively even.
“I do that sometimes,” I murmured.
His smile tilted knowingly. “You’re trying to decide whether to trust me.”
I laughed under my breath. “You’d hate my answer.”
“I already know it.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because you’re not very good at lying to yourself.”
I felt my chest tighten.
I’d built my life on lying—to everyone, even myself—and yet with him, the words caught in my throat. The air between us grew heavier, dense enough that I could almost taste the tension between us.
“This shouldn’t be complicated,” I said, my voice soft but frayed around the edges.
“It isn’t,” he replied. “Unless you make it so.”
He leaned in a little, and instinct made me pull back half an inch, but his hand slid to the small of my back again.
He didn’t drag me forward; he simply waited.
The heat of his palm seeped through the lace of my dress until I couldn’t tell whether the shiver running up my spine belonged to me or him.
I could end this now.
I could excuse myself, laugh it off, slip down the elevator, ghost out of his world before morning.
But walking away meant failing the mission.
I never failed.
My training whispered: Stay close. Distract him. Get into the office. Find the data.
That was the plan.
That was the only reason I was still here.
At least that’s what I kept telling myself.
His hand moved to my jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it anchored me in place.
I felt the world narrow—the city lights, the hum of the penthouse, the faint hiss of the record—all collapsing into the small, impossible distance between his mouth and mine.
He hesitated just long enough for me to feel the decision forming, and then he closed it.
The kiss was not what I expected.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t rough.
It was pure command.
I told myself to resist—to let him think he was winning while I took what I needed—but the second his lips touched mine, the thought shattered.
His mouth was warm, his breath mixing with mine.
The air itself felt charged. I tasted the scotch on his tongue, the faint edge of smoke, and something purely him.
For half a heartbeat, I stayed frozen, every instinct screaming that I couldn’t afford this, but when his hand slid higher, fingers threading into my hair, I broke.
I kissed him back.
I meant to take back control, to lead, to make him follow my pace. Instead, he caught me effortlessly, turning my calculated defiance into total surrender. Then his grip tightened just enough to remind me who was winning this round.
The kiss deepened, his tongue tracing the inside of my lower lip so smoothly it made my knees weaken. My breath stuttered against his mouth, and he pulled me closer until my body molded against his.
I should have stopped it right there, but the warmth of him, the way he tasted, the way his lips captured mine dragged me under like a riptide.
When he finally pulled back, his breath ghosted across my cheek. “You’re good at pretending,” he said softly, the faintest edge of amusement in his tone.
“So are you,” I whispered, trying to sound composed even as my pulse betrayed me.
“Maybe that’s why this works,” he murmured. “You hide; I hunt.”
I met his gaze, defiant and breathless. “Who says you’re the hunter?”
He smiled again, that same controlled, devastating grin. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Before I could reply, he moved back in. His fingers slid into my shoulder-length straight hair, threading through the strands until his palm found the back of my head. He tugged gently, drawing me closer to him, my breath catching right before his mouth found mine again.
This time, there was nothing measured about it. The kiss hit hard, all heat and intent. His grip tightened, holding me exactly where he wanted me, and my hands rose instinctively to his neck, searching for leverage that wasn’t there.
My heart was beating too fast, my body too aware of every place he touched. The edge of control I’d been clinging to dissolved into the warmth of his mouth, the steady pull of his fingers through my hair, the soft growl that escaped him when I finally stopped fighting and let him have me.
When he broke the kiss, his forehead rested against mine, his breath hot and uneven. “Still pretending?” he asked.
I didn’t trust my voice enough to answer.
He smiled against my lips, his tone dark with satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he moved. His hands slid down my back, finding the curve of my hips, and before I could protest, he lifted me.
My legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, the fabric of my dress bunching around my thighs as he carried me across the room.
He didn’t speak, didn’t look away, just walked me toward the bedroom like he’d already decided how the night would end.
And the worst part?
I didn’t want to stop him.
He walked into the master bedroom and placed me down on my back on a bed draped in charcoal silk, the sheets cool against my bare skin.
He didn’t give me time to think, to reclaim the narrative, to remember why I’d come here.
Instead, he climbed over me and wrapped a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me flush against him.
His gaze was heavy, a silent command that made the air between us thrum with a warm, reckless feeling.
I told myself this was fine. This was part of the role.
But the tremor that ran through me as his other hand slid up my thigh had nothing to do with ARCHEON.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear. “You’re not as hard to read as you think,” he whispered.
“Maybe you just see what you want to see.”
He laughed softly, his breath warm on my neck. “Or maybe you finally met someone who’s better at the game than you.”
Before I could argue, he shifted. Sliding his hands up my thighs and under my dress, he hooked his fingers into the lace of my panties and tugged them down. The movement was quick, efficient, without pretense. He tossed them aside like they were an afterthought.
He left my heels on.
Hot.
Then he dropped his head between my spread thighs, and his mouth was on me, hot and sudden.
The breath caught in my throat. My fingers fisted in the sheets, my body arching before I knew what was happening.
His tongue traced an unhurried and entirely too deliberate circle around my clit, and I bit my lower lip, a tight, angry pleasure coiling low in my belly.
Damn him.
I didn’t want this to feel good. I didn’t want to lose the edge, the clarity, the cold, calculated purpose that had brought me here. But his mouth was relentless, and his hands gripped my hips, holding me in place as he built a rhythm that made my muscles clench and my thoughts scatter like dust.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to focus, to remind myself of the objective, of the needle nestled in a secret compartment in my purse. But every time I tried to grasp the thought, his tongue would flick at the greedy bundle of nerves between my thighs, and my mind would short-circuit again.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I opened my eyes. He’d risen, his hands now braced on either side of my head, his body hovering over mine. His eyes were dark, the pale blue almost gone in the low light.
“You came in here thinking you could control me. Sassy little girl. I’m about to teach you otherwise,” he promised, his voice low and raspy.
“You’re going to come so hard and so many times—on my tongue, on my cock—you’ll forget all about being in control.
” He looked down at me, a heated, predatory smile spreading across his face.
He wanted to break me.
“I won’t break for you,” I managed, the words shaky but defiant.
He laughed, the sound rough. “That’s what they all say.”
He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head.
Then he freed his cock and positioned himself between my taut thighs, the thick head of it nudging against my entrance.
He didn’t push in, not right away. He just stayed there, a threat and a promise all at once.
My hips shifted, a silent, traitorous plea for more, and his smile widened.
“Beg for it,” he rumbled.
“Go to hell.”
He chuckled again, the sound vibrating through my chest. Then without warning, he drove into me, hard and deep. A gasp escaped me, a desperate, uncontrolled sound that made him groan in response.
“You should know you’re going to eventually break for me. You’re going to beg for mercy before I’m through with you.” The low growl sent goosebumps racing across my skin.