21. Razvan
RAZVAN
The door to the en-suite bathroom clicks shut, but in the silence of the St. Petersburg night it might as well be a gunshot.
I don’t move from my side of the bed. I lie back against the overkill of silk pillows, my hands folded behind my head, staring at the gold-leaf molding of the ceiling. But I’m not seeing the decor. I’m hearing.
The rustle of fabric. The sharp, rhythmic zip of her suitcase.
Then, the softer sounds—the slide of silk against skin as she sheds that red dress.
I can picture it perfectly: the way the fabric pools around her ankles, leaving her standing there in the pale moonlight.
Then comes the pitter-patter of bare feet on the cold marble floor.
The shower door grinds open. A beat of silence. Then the hiss of water hitting tile.
I close my eyes and exhale a breath that feels like it’s laced with broken glass.
My body is a traitor. I am hard—aching, pulsing, stone-cold hard—and it’s a physical weight that makes every muscle in my torso corded with tension.
I should have stayed at the estate. I should have put her in a separate wing, a separate city, a separate life.
But what she said earlier, it’s clawing at me. The estate is my prison. Here, I can pretend.
She’s right. Back in Moscow, I am her captor.
I am the man who took her, the man who keeps her, the man she stares at with a hatred so pure it feels like a physical brand.
But here, in the dim glow of a five-star hotel, the lines are blurring.
I don’t see a captive. I don’t see a strategic marriage.
I see a woman who makes my blood boil with a need that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with possession.
The water stops.
I listen to the rattle of the rings as she pulls the curtain back. Footsteps again. Then the door opens.
Lena stops just past the threshold, freezing when she sees I’m still awake, still watching.
She’s wrapped in a white plush hotel towel that looks absurdly large on her small frame, tucked precariously over her chest. Her skin is flushed pink from the heat, glistening with stubborn droplets of water that refuse to leave her.
I find myself irrationally jealous of those droplets. I want to be the one sliding down the curve of her shoulder, tracing the dip of her spine.
“I…I realized I didn’t bring my change of clothes in there,” she murmurs, her voice small and fractured. She looks toward the suitcase at the foot of the bed then back at me. Her hair is a damp, dark halo around her face.
“Get your clothes, Lena,” I say, my voice sounding like I’ve been swallowing gravel.
She nods once and starts to pad quickly toward her box. She’s in a hurry—running from the tension, from the way I’m looking at her. Her damp feet hit a slick patch of hardwood where the carpet doesn’t reach.
Her heel skids. Her arms fly out for balance.
I’m off the bed before she even hits the ground. It’s instinct, pure and unfiltered. I catch her mid-air, my hands clamping onto her waist to steady her. But the momentum is too much. As I pull her flush against my chest to keep her from slamming into the floor, the towel gives up.
It hits the floor in a heavy, damp heap.
The air leaves the room.
Lena is naked in my arms. Her breasts are pressed against my dress shirt, the dampness of her skin soaking into the silk instantly.
She is small, fragile, and utterly breathtaking.
Her eyes are wide, searching mine, and for the first time tonight I don’t see the flash of memory in her gaze.
I see the same fire that’s currently incinerating my self-control.
“Razvan,” she whispers. It’s not a protest. It’s a plea.
“Be still, zayka,” I growl, the endearment slipping out unbidden. My little rabbit. My prey. My wife.
The pretense—the “Republic of Lena,” the rules, the masks we wear in Moscow—it all collapses. I don’t think about the families downstairs. I only think about the fact that her skin is like velvet and she is vibrating against me.
I don’t let her go. My hands, large and scarred, slide from her waist down to the swell of her hips, pulling her so tight against my mounting heat that she gasps. I lean down, my lips hovering just an inch from hers.
“You’ve been running all day,” I mutter against her mouth. “Run now, Lena. If you’re going to go, do it before I lose what’s left of my mind.”
She doesn’t run. She tilts her head back, offering me the elegant line of her throat, her fingers curling into the sleeves of my shirt. “Don’t make me wait,” she breathes.
I don’t. I capture her mouth in a kiss that is less an invitation and more a conquest. It’s starving and deep. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively, her damp skin clinging to my pants. I carry her the two steps to the bed and lay her back against the silk.
I don’t take off my clothes yet. I want her to feel the contrast—the rough fabric of my suit against her bare, sensitized skin.
I settle between her legs, my weight pinning her down, and begin a slow, torturous exploration.
I trail my lips from her ear down to her collarbone, my tongue licking away the stray water droplets I was jealous of moments ago.
“You’re so beautiful it’s an insult,” I whisper, my hand cupping her breast, my thumb teasing the nipple until it’s a hard, dark peak.
She moans, her head thrashing against the pillow. “Razvan…please…”
“Please what, zayka? Tell me what you want the murderer to do to you.”
“I want you inside me,” she sobs, her hands reaching for my belt, her movements frantic and clumsy. “I want to forget. Just for tonight, make me forget everything.”
I strip my clothes off with a violence that speaks to my desperation. The buttons on my shirt tear away. My belt buckle clatters to the floor. It’s frantic, chaotic—the fabric of my carefully constructed restraint shredded in seconds. When I stand naked before her, the air itself feels charged.
I return to her, bare skin to bare skin, and the friction is a shock to the system. Her skin is hot, damp, impossibly soft. Mine is rough, scarred. The contrast makes her gasp.
I spend time on her—more time than I ever have.
I need to savor this. My fingers trace the line of her collarbone, down the center of her chest, over the flat plane of her stomach. She trembles under my touch, her breath coming in shallow, ragged pulls.
“Relax, zayka,” I murmur, my voice a low command.
She tries to obey, but her muscles are taut wires of anticipation.
I lean down, my lips finding the hollow of her throat.
I kiss the pulse point there, feel her heartbeat hammering against my mouth.
It’s a frantic rhythm—the same rhythm that pounds in my own chest.
I need to taste more.
I shift lower, my mouth finding the swell of her breast. I lick, a slow, broad stroke that makes her arch off the bed.
Her nipple is already a hard, dark peak, begging for attention.
I give it everything. I take it into my mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, rolling the tight bud with my tongue.
She cries out, her hands fisting in the sheets beside her head.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers, her eyes closed, her face a mask of pure concentration.
I won’t.
My hand slides down her body, over the curve of her hip, along the outer line of her thigh. I feel the goosebumps rising on her skin as I move. My fingers reach the inner warmth of her thigh, and she instinctively parts her legs wider for me. A silent, beautiful invitation.
I look at her then, my gaze holding hers. “Watch me,” I say.
She opens her eyes, her pupils dilated, her focus entirely on my face. I let her see the raw hunger in my expression. Then I move my hand to her center.
My fingers don’t plunge inside immediately. They explore. They trace the outer folds, feeling her heat, her dampness, how slick she already is for me. My thumb presses against her clit, a firm, circular motion that makes her hips jerk off the bed.
“God,” she breathes, her head falling back again.
I smile, a predatory, satisfied smile. Then I lower my head.
I replace my thumb with my tongue.
I lick her, a slow, deliberate stroke from bottom to top.
The taste of her is intoxicating—clean, salty, uniquely hers.
Her whole body stiffens, a sharp intake of breath catching in her throat.
I do it again, slower, dragging the flat of my tongue over her most sensitive nerve.
Her hands find my hair, not pushing me away but gripping, holding me there.
I use my mouth like a weapon of pleasure. I suck gently on her clit, feeling it swell under my attention. I tease with the tip of my tongue, flicking rapidly, then slowing to a maddening, lazy pace. She starts to moan, a continuous, low sound that vibrates through her body and into mine.
When her thighs begin to shake around my head, I introduce my fingers.
One finger, slick with her own moisture, slides into her warmth. She is tight but welcoming. The feeling of her inner muscles clutching around my finger is almost too much. I move it slowly, in and out, matching the rhythm of my tongue on her clit.
Her moans turn into gasps. “More…please…”
I add a second finger. The stretch is exquisite. I curl my fingers inside her, searching for the spot that will make her scream. I know her body. I remember. When I find it, a textured ridge, I press against it with a steady pressure.
Her reaction is instantaneous. Her back arches off the bed so violently I have to brace my free hand on her hip to keep her from moving away.
“There!” she cries out, the word a fractured plea.
I keep my fingers there, pressing, rubbing in a slow, relentless circle.
My mouth continues its work, sucking and licking in tandem with the internal pressure. Her breaths become short, frantic pants. She starts to babble, words without meaning, my name mixed with curses and pleas. The scent of her arousal fills the air, thick and primal.