Chapter 8
ANDREY
Istand outside Mariya's door, my hand hovering over the keypad, and force myself to wait.
Just a few more seconds. I've already resisted checking on her for a full twenty-four hours, and I'm proud of myself for the restraint.
Most men in my position would have gone back within the first hour, eager to continue the interrogation or at least verify their prisoner hadn't somehow escaped.
But I'm not most men.
I wanted to give her time to think. Time to realize the futility of her situation. Time to understand that cooperation is her only option.
At least, that's what I tell myself. The truth is more complicated.
I haven't been able to stop thinking about her, and not just for the information she can provide.
There's something about her that's gotten under my skin, the way she fought in that alley, the defiance in her eyes during the interrogation, and the fact that she actually stabbed me.
The wound at my side tingles, as if reminding me what she's capable of doing. I press my hand against the bandage, feeling the dull ache beneath.
I should be angry. I should be planning ways to break her spirit, to make her regret ever raising a hand against me.
Instead, I find myself grinning like an idiot, looking forward to finding out what else she's capable of.
I'm even looking forward to sparring against her again, though next time, I'll be more prepared.
I punch in the code on the keypad and hear the lock disengage with a soft click. The key turns smoothly in my hand, and I push the door open, standing slightly to the side in case she tries to attack me. After yesterday, I'm not taking any chances.
What I find instead shocks me and has my body reacting instantly.
She's lying on the bed in only her underwear, a pair of black lace panties and a matching bra that leaves very little to the imagination.
Who knew she'd be dressed so provocatively beneath that librarian's clothing?
The conservative sweaters and jeans she wore at the library had hidden curves that are now on full display.
Her legs are long and toned, her stomach flat, and the swell of her breasts above the lace makes my mouth go dry.
She's grabbed a book from the bookshelf against the wall and is leaning against the pillows, reading. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, and she looks completely relaxed. Comfortable. Like she's lounging in her own bedroom instead of being held prisoner in mine.
She looks up when I come in, her green eyes meeting mine without a trace of fear.
Her expression remains neutral, almost bored, as if having a man walk into her room while she's half-naked is the most normal thing in the world.
She doesn't try to cover herself, either, doesn't reach for a blanket or cross her arms over her chest. She just watches me, waiting to see what I'll do.
My brain struggles to process what I'm seeing. This is a totally different woman from the one who stabbed me yesterday.
"Enjoying the book?" I ask, keeping my voice casual even though my heart is pounding.
She glances down at the cover, then back up at me. "It's interesting. You have good taste in literature."
"I'm glad you approve." I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms carefully to avoid putting pressure on my stitches. "I see you've made yourself comfortable."
"The room is very nice." She sets the book aside, stretching like a cat. The movement makes her back arch, drawing my attention to the curve of her waist, the way the lace of her bra stretches across her skin. "Much better than I expected, considering the circumstances."
Is she flirting with me? The tone of her voice, the way she's looking at me through her lashes, it's subtle but unmistakable. Nothing bold or obvious, but it's there, a hint of invitation in the curve of her lips and the way she shifts on the bed to give me a better view.
And then it hits me.
She's trying to seduce me. She thinks she can seduce me into letting her go free.
I almost laugh out loud. Does she really think I'm that stupid? That I'll fall for such an obvious ploy? I've been in this business for twenty-five years. I've seen every trick, every manipulation, every attempt to gain the upper hand. And this? This is amateur hour.
But instead of calling her out, I decide to play her game. This could be entertaining. And who knows? Maybe if I let her think it's working, she'll let something slip, give me a piece of information she's been holding back.
"You're not cold?" I ask, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step into the room. "I can have someone bring you more clothes if you need them."
"I'm fine." She tilts her head, studying me with those green eyes. "Unless you'd prefer I put something on?"
"I didn't say that." I move closer to the bed, watching her carefully.
She doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. If anything, she seems to relax even more, her body language open and inviting.
"I'm just surprised. Yesterday, you were fighting me every chance you got.
Today, you're lying here like we're old friends. "
"Maybe I've had time to think." She sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The movement brings her closer to me, close enough that I can smell her shampoo. "Maybe I've realized that fighting you isn't going to get me anywhere."
"And what do you think will get you somewhere?"
She stands, and suddenly, we're face to face.
Well, face to chest. She's tall for a woman, but I still have several inches on her.
She has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes, and when she does, I see something there that makes my pulse quicken.
Heat and desire. Or at least, a very convincing imitation of it.
"Cooperation," she says softly. "You want information. I want my freedom. Maybe we can help each other."
"Help each other." I reach out, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for just a second. "And what, exactly, are you offering?"
"What do you want?" She places her hand on my chest, right over my heart. I can feel the warmth of her palm through my shirt, the slight tremor in her fingers that betrays her nervousness. She's good, but not perfect. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement."
I cover her hand with mine, holding it against my chest. "You think you can seduce me into letting you go?"
For just a second, I see panic flash in her eyes. But she recovers quickly, her expression smoothing back into that sultry mask. "I think we're both adults. I think we both know what we want."
"Do we?" I lean down, bringing my face closer to hers. Close enough that our lips are almost touching. Close enough that I can feel her breath on my skin. "Tell me, Mariya. What do you think I want?"
"Me," she whispers.
She's not wrong. I do want her, have wanted her since I saw her in that library.
I close the distance between us, capturing her lips with mine.
She responds immediately, her mouth opening under mine, her free hand coming up to grip my shoulder.
The kiss is hot. Her body presses against mine, soft curves molding to hard muscle.
I can feel every inch of her through the thin lace, and my body responds with an urgency that surprises me.
My hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat that goes straight to my groin.
This is dangerous. I know it's dangerous. But I can't seem to stop myself.
I walk her backward until her legs hit the bed, then push her down onto the mattress. She goes willingly, pulling me down with her, her legs wrapping around my waist. The kiss deepens, becomes more urgent, and I can feel her heart racing against my chest, her breasts pressed against my chest.
My hand slides up her side, tracing the curve of her ribs and the swell of her breast. She arches into the touch, her fingers tangling in my hair. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to take this further, to give in to the desire that's been building since I first saw her.
I break the kiss long enough to pull my shirt over my head, tossing it aside.
Her eyes darken as she takes in my bare chest, her gaze lingering on the bandage at my side where she stabbed me.
For a moment, something flickers in her expression.
Guilt? Regret? But then it's gone, replaced by pure heat.
"Touch me," I command, my voice rough.
She doesn't hesitate. Her hands explore my chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the scars I've collected over the years.
Each touch sends fire through my veins. I reach behind her and unhook her bra with practiced ease, pulling it away to reveal perfect breasts.
I lower my head, taking one nipple into my mouth, and she gasps, her back arching off the bed.
I lavish attention on her breasts, using my tongue and teeth until she's writhing beneath me, her nails digging into my shoulders. My hand slides down her flat stomach to the waistband of those black lace panties. I hook my fingers in them and pull them down her legs, tossing them aside.
She's beautiful, completely bare before me, flushed with desire, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
For a moment, I just look at her, committing this image to memory.
Then I stand and remove the rest of my clothes, watching her watch me.
Her eyes widen slightly when she sees how hard I am for her.
I settle between her thighs, and she opens for me without hesitation. My fingers find her wet and ready, and I stroke her, watching her face as pleasure washes over her features. She's responsive, her hips moving against my hand, soft moans escaping her lips.
I position myself at her entrance and thrust inside in one smooth motion. She cries out, her body tensing around me, and fuck, she feels incredible. Tight and hot and perfect. I give her a moment to adjust, then begin to move, setting a hard, demanding rhythm.
She meets me thrust for thrust, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. I brace myself on my forearms, looking down at her face. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, and she's making these small sounds that drive me crazy. I want to see her come apart beneath me.
I reach between us, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with my thumb.
Her eyes fly open, meeting mine, and the connection is electric.
For a moment, I forget this is supposed to be a game, forget that she's my prisoner, that she's trying to manipulate me.
All I can think about is her, the way she feels, and the way she's looking at me with such heat in those expressive green eyes.
"Come for me," I growl against her ear, and she does, her body clenching around me as she cries out. The sensation pushes me over the edge, and I follow her into oblivion, burying my face in her neck as my release crashes through me.
For several long moments, we stay like that, our bodies still joined, both of us breathing hard. I can feel her heart pounding against my chest, matching the rhythm of my own. Then reality comes crashing back.
What the fuck did I just do?
I pull away from her, suddenly needing distance. She watches me with those dark eyes as I gather my clothes, her expression unreadable. Is that satisfaction I see there? Triumph? My stomach twists.
She played me. She fucking played me, and I let her. Worse, I wanted it. I still want it, even knowing what she's doing.
I dress quickly, not looking at her. I can feel her gaze on me, waiting for me to say something. Anything. But what is there to say? That it was incredible? That I want to do it again?
I head for the door, my mind racing. This changes everything. I've crossed a line I can't uncross, and she knows it.