Chapter 20
VI
I leave the Skylight Room before I say something I can’t take back.
The corridor is empty, thank God. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be the woman who just begged three men for help and got shut down.
I’m shaking. Not crying, I’m done with crying, at least I hope I am. This is rage. The clean, white-hot kind that makes your hands ball into fists and your vision narrow. The kind that makes you want to tear someone apart with your hands.
Armen finds me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there. Could be a minute, could be five. He comes around the corner, unhurried, like he’s just walking somewhere. But he’s not. He came looking for me. I can tell by the way his gaze finds mine and holds it.
“Don’t tell me he’s right, Armen. Don’t tell me to give it time. Don’t manage me.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
He stops in front of me, closer than he usually stands. His eyes move across my face, reading whatever’s there. He sees the rage. The hurt. The want that’s been sitting underneath everything since Sting held me in this same corridor an hour ago and then walked away.
“What do you need?” he asks.
I grab the front of his shirt, pull him to me, and kiss him hard enough to split my lip on his teeth.
He doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on me instantly. One on the back of my neck, one gripping my hip, pulling me flush against him. I’m pouring every ounce of frustration from the Skylight Room into his mouth.
I pull back, breathing hard. “Your room?” I ask.
He doesn’t ask questions, just takes my hand and walks. Fast.
I’m already pulling my shirt off. He watches. Doesn’t help. Just stands there with those calm dark eyes tracking every movement while I strip down to nothing in the middle of his room.
“Your turn,” I say.
He pulls his shirt over his head, undoes his belt, and steps out of everything. He’s hard already. Has been since the corridor, probably. Armen doesn’t advertise but his body doesn’t lie.
I push him toward the bed and he lets me. He sits on the edge. I climb on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, and I take his cock in my hand, guiding him inside me without any buildup. There’s no foreplay and no patience. I’m too angry for that crap.
He makes a low growl when I sink down on him. His hands grip my hips, holding me there for a second, letting me adjust, his eyes locked on mine.
“You sure about this?” he asks. Even now. Even with his cock inside me and my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck me, please, Armen.”
Something changes in his expression. The calm stays but an edge joins it. He grips my hips harder and drives up into me. Hard. The sound I make is loud and raw and I don’t try to muffle it.
“Harder,” I say.
He flips me. On my back, him on top, one hand pinning my wrists above my head. His hips drill me, deep and relentless. His mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, my breast. I arch into him, wrapping my legs around his back and pulling deeper.
“You good, baby?” he growls against my skin.
“So good.”
He fucks me hard enough that the bed frame hits the wall and neither of us cares.
His hand releases my wrists and slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, pressing and circling.
The combination is devastating. The rage in my body is converting into something else.
Heat. Pressure. A wave building from my core.
I come with his thumb on my clit and his cock buried deep. My whole body locks around him. He follows me seconds later, his rhythm breaking, a groan pressed into my shoulder, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of my head.
We lie there, his weight on me, my legs still wrapped around him, both of us breathing hard.
After a minute, he lifts his head and looks at me with those steady eyes. Even post-sex, even breathing hard, even with sweat on his temples, his eyes are calm.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“What? Was that a pity fuck?” I ask, smiling.
Who cares if it was? It was awesome.
“He’ll come around, Vi.”
“Don’t talk about Sting right now.”
“Okay.” He rolls off me, onto his back. I curl into his side because Armen’s body is warm and the only thing in this building that feels safe at the moment.
We don’t talk at all. I lie there with my head on his chest and his arm around me, and I let the anger drain out of me until what’s left is just tired.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out how to get those papers with or without Sting’s permission. Tomorrow, I’ll be the woman with a plan.
Tonight, I’m the woman in Armen’s bed.