Chapter 9 Raven #2
"Viktor thinks I'm wallpaper with a pulse. They all do." I covered his hand with mine. Pressed it harder against my skin. It'd been so long since anyone had touched me in a way that didn't involve helping me not to fall. "That's the point. That's always been the point."
"And what about me?" His voice was low and rough. "You're telling me this stuff. Why? You don't know who I work for. What I'd do with this."
I interrupted him. "I know you haven't told Viktor that I'm sharper than he thinks. You've had weeks of watching me, and you haven't reported a single thing that would put me at risk." I traced the ridges of his knuckles with my fingertips. "And I know you hurt somebody who meant me harm."
His hand stilled under mine.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I heard the scuffle and him cry out. I didn't know exactly what happened, but I knew it was you."
I let that sit for a moment.
"Like everything else, I filed it away." I traced a slow circle on the back of his hand. "Am I wrong?"
His fingers curled against my jaw. His thumb found my cheekbone and stayed there, pressing lightly, like he was memorizing the shape of it.
"You're terrifying," he said. "You know that?"
I turned my face into his palm and brushed my lips against the heel of his hand.
His other hand found the back of my neck and his fingers slid into my hair like they always did. It was a possessive gesture, and I fucking loved it. "Is that why you're pulling away from me?" I asked.
"I'm not pulling away," he said, His breathing was ragged and uneven and honest. "I'm trying not to wreck your life."
"Maybe I want to be wrecked."
His grip tightened in my hair. A sharp sting that ran down my spine and pooled hot between my hips. "You don't know what that means."
"Then show me."
I pulled him closer by the front of his shirt.
He resisted, but only for a second before his mouth found mine.
This wasn't like the hallway, or even like my apartment. Those kisses had been a collision. Angry, punishing, a man furious at his own want. This one was so much worse.
This one was slow.
This time he kissed me like he was trying to memorize shape of my mouth.
His tongue traced my bottom lip, then slid inside, tasting me in long, deliberate strokes that made my thighs clench and my fingers curl into his shirt.
His hand in my hair tilted my head exactly where he wanted it, controlled even now, with his pulse slamming against my palm where I'd pressed it to his throat.
I moaned into his mouth, and he stiffened against me.
The slowness shattered. His arm banded around my waist and hauled me off my feet and into his lap as he sat, I had no idea on what, my knees landing on either side of his hips.
There was cold stone beneath his thighs, but he was furnace-hot, and when my hips settled against his, I felt exactly what I'd done to him.
His cock was hard and thick. Straining against his pants and pressing right against the place where I was already wet and aching.
"Fuck," he hissed against my mouth.
The sounds of the city around us faded away as I rolled my hips, slow and deliberate. Grinding myself against the ridge of him through layers of material that suddenly felt like too much and not enough.
His hands clamped down on my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks I'd feel for days.
"Do that again," he growled, "and I'll fuck you right here in front of anyone who happens to pass by."
"Promise?" I rolled again. Harder. The friction hit exactly where I needed it, and a sound tore out of my throat. It was raw and needy, and nothing like the controlled woman I performed for everyone else.
"Raven." My name was a warning. His hips jerked up, grinding against me, and the pressure sent a current straight through my core. "Not here. Not—fuck—not like this."
"Why not?"
"Because I want to hear every sound you make." His mouth dragged down my throat, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting. "And if I start here, I won't stop. And we're fifty feet from Viktor and a restaurant full of soldiers who'd put a bullet in both of us for this."
The mention of Viktor should have cooled me down, but it didn't. If anything, the risk made me grind harder against him, chasing the danger, chasing the heat, chasing the feeling of being this close to the edge of something irreversible.
He groaned—a low, guttural sound, vibrating against my throat—and then his hands were on my waist, lifting me off him like I weighed nothing and setting me back on the bench.
Cold air rushed in around me, and I nearly whimpered at the loss.
"Tomorrow night," he said. His breathing was wrecked, coming in harsh pulls through his mouth. "After your set. I'll wait for you."
"You said that before and didn't show."
"I'll show." His forehead pressed against mine and his thighs spread wide around mine as he squatted before me. His thumb traced my swollen bottom lip. "I promise. And when I do—" He paused. Let the silence fill with everything he wasn't saying. "Wear something you don't mind losing."
The words hit me low, a pulse of heat that clenched tight and didn't let go.
He stood. I heard his knees crack, heard him hiss and could only assume he was adjusting himself.
I stood. Smoothed my dress. Lifted my chin. "Tomorrow," I repeated.
"Tomorrow."
He'd asked for twenty-four hours. I'd given them to him.
But when those hours were up, I was going to burn every last wall he'd built between us to the ground.
One way or another, Milo was going to break.
And he was going to break for me.