Chapter 2
LEV
The woman is hooked. I feel it in the way her hand clutches mine, in how her body yielded when I kissed her in that hallway. She could have walked away at any moment or shoved me back and told me no. She didn’t. That’s enough for me to know to go forward.
The city’s night air wraps around us as we step out of the back exit of the club.
A black SUV idles at the curb, one of mine.
The driver straightens the moment he sees me, but I wave him off.
I don’t need a car. The hotel is across the street, and I prefer the short walk, the way it draws curious stares and makes others scatter.
She keeps pace beside me, her short dress riding high on her thighs, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
There’s a spark in her eyes, a defiance I don’t usually see in the women who follow me.
They want the money, the power, the name.
She wants something else. I don’t know what yet, but I intend to find out.
The hotel’s facade gleams under the city lights, polished marble and glass that reflect the neon glow of the street. My name isn’t on the building, but it doesn’t need to be. Levcon’s shell companies own it outright. Everyone on staff knows exactly whose property this is.
The doorman opens the glass doors before I reach them. Inside, the lobby hums with quiet activity: businessmen on late check-ins, tourists dragging luggage, a couple waiting by the elevator. The front desk clerk looks up, sees me, and immediately pales.
He doesn’t ask for identification or check the system. His hands move fast, fumbling a little as he slides a keycard across the counter. “Penthouse suite, sir,” he says, his voice unsteady.
I don’t thank him. I never do. Power doesn’t require pleasantries.
The woman glances at me as I take the key. Her lips curve into something between disbelief and amusement, but she doesn’t ask questions. She’s smart enough to keep them to herself.
I guide her toward the elevators, my hand at the small of her back. It’s not a gentle touch. It’s possessive and claiming. For tonight, at least, she’s mine, and I want her to know it. The elevator doors open without delay, and we step inside.
The doors slide shut, cutting off the murmur of the lobby, leaving only the soft hum of the motor and the two of us. She leans against the mirrored wall, her eyes on me, daring me to make the next move. I don’t waste any time.
One step closes the distance between us. My hand curls around her jaw, tilting her face up to me. Her lips part on a quick inhale before I crush my mouth to hers. The kiss is hard and all-consuming.
She tastes like sugar and alcohol, but beneath it is something sweeter, something unspoiled. Her hands press against my chest, and I brace my palm beside her head, pinning her with my body.
The elevator climbs, slow and steady, and I use every second.
My tongue slides against hers. She arches into me, her curves soft against the rigid line of my suit.
When I drag my mouth down her throat, her pulse jumps against my lips.
I bite lightly, savoring the sound of her gasp, the way her nails dig into my chest through the fabric.
The elevator chimes, the doors sliding open onto the private hall of the penthouse floor. I pull back, catch her hand, and tug her after me. Her heels click against the marble as she hurries to keep up.
Inside the suite, the city spreads out beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, lights glittering against the Hudson. The room is polished, expensive, designed for indulgence. I barely pay attention to any of it.
I press her against the closed door before she can take any of it in. My mouth claims hers again, my hands already sliding up her thighs. She gasps into me, breathless, and I take advantage, devouring her.
“Take this off,” I order, my fingers tugging at the hem of her dress.
She hesitates for half a second, her wide eyes locked on mine. That hesitation heats my blood. Not because I fear refusal, but because I know she’ll still give in. They always do.
Her hands go to the straps of her dress, pulling them down, baring smooth skin. The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in lace that clings to her curves. My cock strains against my slacks, and I don’t bother hiding it.
I strip off my jacket and shirt in swift motions, tossing them aside. Her eyes sweep over me, lingering on the breadth of my chest, the scars that map my ribs. There’s hunger there, but also something else. Curiosity, maybe.
I guide her to the bedroom and stop in the doorway.
“Naked on the bed,” I say, my voice a command.
She obeys, removing her bra and panties, then moving to the bed and arranging herself in a way that is impossibly tempting. I follow, unbuckling my belt and shoving my slacks down. Her eyes widen when I free myself, and satisfaction rolls through me.
I brace myself and climb on top of her, pressing her down beneath me.
Her breath comes fast, her chest rising and falling as she looks up at me.
For a moment, I study her. The flush in her cheeks, the way her pupils are blown wide with desire.
She isn’t hesitant or shy. She wants this as much as I do, and I’m going to give her as much as she can take.
I kiss her again, hard, while my hand slides between her thighs. Her body arches against me, a broken sound escaping her lips as my fingers find her slick and ready. I stroke her slowly, deliberately, watching her unravel. She whimpers, clutching at my shoulders, trying to pull me closer.
“You like this?” I ask, my voice low, dangerous.
“Yes,” she gasps.
I position myself at her entrance and push into her with one sharp thrust. Her cry of pleasure fills the room, and I grit my teeth at the tight heat gripping me. She needs no time at all to adjust to my cock, which is just as well. I’m not a patient man.
My pace is hard and fast. Each thrust drives into her with relentless force. The headboard hits the wall in a steady rhythm as her nails claw at my back.
Her shallow cries turn into moans, breathy and desperate. I take her mouth again, swallowing every sound, claiming every gasp. Her pussy clenches around me, her body trembling as she comes apart beneath me.
The feel of her pulsing around my shaft tears the control from me, and with a final thrust, I spill into her, holding her down, claiming every inch of her.
For a long moment, the only sound is our ragged breathing and the faint hum of the city outside. I don’t move, braced above her, watching the way her chest heaves, the dazed look in her eyes.
I stay braced above her, my chest rising and falling, watching the way she struggles to catch her breath. Her dark hair spills across the white sheets, damp with sweat, her lips parted as if she still can’t believe what just happened.
Her eyes lock on mine, dazed, with a hard edge underneath, and I know what’s coming before she speaks.
“Will you tell me your name now?”
“Lev.” I let the single syllable fall from my mouth, clipped and final. I don’t give her my surname or any other information she can use for a quick Google search. This is the best way to keep some distance, to ensure no gold-diggers try to turn this into more than it was.
She blinks, waiting for me to return the question, to ask for hers. I don’t. I push off the mattress, standing, already pulling my slacks back on. The silence between us stretches.
“You’re really not going to ask me for mine?” she asks finally, her tone caught between playful and offended.
I button my pants and reach for my shirt.
“No,” I answer with the same finality I always do.
She looks at me as if she expected that response but doesn’t speak.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my jacket, already knowing how I’ll cut this short. “I need to make a call.”
The sitting room is only a few steps away, quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. I dial no one. My phone stays dark in my hand as I lower myself into one of the leather chairs. The glow from the skyline stretches across the glass coffee table, cold and sharp.
I sit there for several minutes, my pulse still unsteady, my cock still aching from how tight she was. She’s beautiful, yes. Fiery, too. She wasn’t meek or eager to please the way so many others are.
That spark should have annoyed me. Instead, it tempted me.
Which is exactly why I need distance.
I loosen the buttons on my shirt, lean back, and stare at the city.
I think about the calls I actually need to make.
Yuri is waiting for updates on the Kozlov situation.
Reports are due from the Brighton Beach operations.
The latest whispers say Petrov’s men are making moves downtown.
But I don’t call anyone. I sit there in silence, forcing the hunger from my body and the pull from my thoughts.
Thirty minutes pass before I move again.
I need to end this before I cross a line I can’t uncross.
When I step back into the bedroom, she’s asleep.
She’s sprawled across the mattress, sheets tangled around her hips, her bare skin glowing in the dim city light that filters through the blinds.
Her breathing is even, lashes resting dark against her cheeks, her mouth still parted slightly as if she had fallen asleep with a question still on her lips.
For an instant, something twists in my chest. A foreign ache.
I stand at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. My hand itches to reach out, to brush her hair back from her face, to climb in beside her and feel the warmth of her body against mine again. To let the night stretch longer than it should. I almost do.
I clench my jaw, forcing the weakness back into the pit of my stomach where it belongs. I’m not a man who lingers. I don’t do soft. I don’t do mornings-after. That was beaten out of me years ago. Attachment is a liability, and liabilities get people killed.
I look at her one last time, committing the sight to memory. Then I turn away. I don’t leave her a note. I don’t write down my number or say I hope to see her again. I slip back into my jacket, slide my phone into my pocket, and leave the suite. The door closes behind me with a quiet click.
By the time the elevator reaches the lobby, my mask is back in place.
Cold, controlled, and untouched.