36. There Is No Tomorrow
THERE IS NO TOMORROW
“Where are you going?”
“You said not to tell you,” she sasses back.
I catch up with Carina in three more strides, grabbing her arm and yanking her to a halt. She tries to shove at my chest, but I’m expecting it. I have her pinned against the wall a second later.
She glares, but doesn’t attempt to push me away again. “I could shoot you.”
“Go for it.”
A scowl appears. I want to kiss her until it’s gone.
Instead, I say, “We need to leave soon.”
“You go. I’m good here.”
“You want to forget about earlier? The whole point of meeting with Seamus was to get you those papers. You’d better fucking use them, Carina.”
Her eyes flash. “I’m not one of your men, Lev. Stop ordering me around.”
I sigh.
“This is my problem,” she continues. “You’ve done more than I ever expected you to.”
Now I’m scowling. “This isn’t over yet. You’re still—”
“You won’t let me make my own decisions,” she snaps.
“What are you talking about?” I reply, genuinely baffled. “Earlier, you were asking me where—”
“I was asking for your input. Not for you to choose for me. I thought—I used to think I was making my own decisions. Now, I realize it was all being controlled by my father. Like I was a … zoo animal. I thought I was living in the wild, then stepped outside the exhibit and realized it had all been a pretty facade. I never got a chance to be myself, not really, and now I’ll have to pretend I’m someone else entirely.
I’m adjusting, and I have one final night, and I want to have fun so I forget that. Let me.”
“Fine.” I step away, walking back the way we came.
“Lev, don’t—”
She stops speaking when I pivot, completing the circle and heading back to where she’s standing.
I hold one hand out. “Hi. I’m Lev Sokolov.”
A slow smile spreads across her face as her fingers curl around my palm. “Carina Caruso.”
“Do you come here a lot, Carina Caruso?”
She shakes her head. “Mm-mm. First time. You?”
“Occasionally.”
“I bet you do a lot of things ‘occasionally.’ ”
“Like what?”
“How would I know? We just met.” Her thumb brushes along my knuckles. “Your accent is sexy. Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Say something in Russian.”
“Ty samaya krasivaya zhenshchina v mire.”
“What does that mean?”
“I like your shirt.”
“Thanks,” she says pertly. “I got it on clearance. In Paris.”
“I like the color.”
“Do you always wear black?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t stain.”
“Are you an artist? Doctor? Chef?”
“Humanitarian.”
Her lips twitch. “I didn’t realize that was such a messy profession. Do you donate to charities?”
I shake my head. “Only symphonies.”
Carina grimaces. “You had to bring that up when I’m annoyed with you.”
“You’re annoyed with me? We literally just met—”
We are still shaking—holding—hands. I realize that because Carina abruptly drops mine in favor of rising onto her tiptoes, flinging her arms around my neck, and kissing me.
I kiss her back. And it’s familiar. The warm friction of her lips, the soft hum she makes when our tongues touch, the simmering desperation.
There’s never a next kiss planned when we’re together.
We’re forever on the brink of a last time, and that’s especially evident right now.
Her mouth moves to my neck, sucking just below my pulse point. “Can we go back to the hotel?”
Reason fights the fog of lust long enough for me to remember why that’s a bad idea.
I knew it was a possibility we wouldn’t return—smartest and safest for her to leave as soon as possible.
Even if Seamus hadn’t complicated things, the longer we spend together, the greater the possibility we’re seen by someone connected.
Cillian has every inch of this place covered with cameras. He’s paranoid, with one exception—the office where he does business.
“This way.” I grab Carina’s hand and pull her farther down the hallway, away from the crowd that’s still audible in the opposite direction.
I stop at the last doorway, keying in the code.
“Are we allowed to be back here?” Carina asks, a few threads of nerves appearing in her tone.
“Yes.”
The light flashes green, followed by a brief beep.
“Why do I feel like you’d say that, no matter what?” She enters first, right hand covering the outline of her gun.
She’s changed. Maybe that was inevitable, now that I know who her father is, but I can’t help but feel like I contributed to her corruption.
That if I’d left her alone, never manufactured that second meeting, she’d be onstage with Chicago’s symphony right now.
She’d have settled down, maybe with that guy from the alley, if I hadn’t kept returning to disrupt her life.
Maybe she’d be married by now, and her father couldn’t have used her in whatever deal he negotiated with Nico Morello.
Carina doesn’t glance around Cillian’s office.
She watches me flip the interior lock, ensuring no one else can enter, even if they know the code, and then she rises up onto her tiptoes to kiss me again.
Her hands tug at the hem of my shirt, then slip under it, her hum vibrating against my mouth as her hands skate over my abs and the scar across my ribs.
I want this. I want it so badly that it feels like my skin is shrinking, struggling to keep my expanding desperation contained.
But I’m not convinced Carina truly wants this.
That she isn’t searching for some way to exorcise the demons that I’m partially responsible for.
I want her to forget, but I need to know she’ll learn to live with it, not let the guilt eat her alive.
I take one step away from her. We’re still touching, but no longer kissing. “Promise me something.”
She sighs, the sound exasperated. “I prefer you not talking.”
There’s a familiar twist in the center of my chest as she parrots my words back to me. A reminder that all the single, supposedly meaningless nights we spent together total up to a significant amount of history.
“I’m serious, Carina.”
“So am I,” she says, but waits expectantly.
“What happened earlier—”
“Me killing someone, you mean?” Her tone is flippant, but I see the spasm of guilt as she says the words.
“Yes. There was nothing different you could have done. If you hadn’t killed him, I would have.
They were part of Seamus’s crew, dealing in all sorts of different forgeries.
As soon as they saw he was dead, they wanted revenge.
They never would have let me walk out of there. Let it go. Look ahead. Promise me.”
She exhales shakily. Her hands are still pressed against my stomach, but they don’t move.
More like she wants the stability. “I feel guilty … about not feeling as guilty as I thought I would. Does that make any sense? He’s dead, and we’re alive, and I’m …
okay with that.” She swallows hard, her nails digging in and scraping my skin.
“I’m actually a little proud of myself. It wasn’t an accident.
I meant to kill him, and I did. If I’m ever in that situation again, I’ll know I can do it.
I’m capable of more than I realized. That’s not a terrible feeling. ”
“Ty sposoben na vso.”
Her head tilts. I didn’t even realize I’d spoken in Russian instead of English, but it’s for the best, considering what I said. She is capable of anything, but she needs to learn that herself.
“Another compliment about my outfit? These jeans aren’t even the right size.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wear.”
“Guys always say that. But when—what are you doing?”
I set her gun on one of the chairs facing Cillian’s desk.
It’s an exact replica of the president of Ireland’s—the sort of posturing shit he loves.
There’s something unexpectedly sexy about having to disarm her before removing the rest of her clothes.
I yank her shirt off next, tossing it on top of the firearm before unsnapping her bra and turning her toward the desk.
“Bend over.”
She listens immediately. Her breathing is rapid as she raises her head, watching me circle Cillian’s desk and rifle through his drawers. I’m certain he’ll have a—forget one; he’s got an entire box of condoms stashed in here.
“You don’t bring your own on work trips?” Carina asks, watching me rip open the wrapper.
“Only to Chicago.”
She likes that answer. Pink washes across her cheeks before she lowers her head again, waiting for me to fuck her. The rush of lust is dizzying.
“What do you want?” I ask, approaching her.
“Your cock,” she answers instantly.
“Where?” I demand.
“M-my pussy.”
Carina loves when I talk dirty to her, but she infrequently asks for anything in bed. I know what she likes most, but this time—our last time—I want to hear her say it aloud.
“Tell me how.”
“Hard. Make me feel it. I want to feel it, Lev.” Her voice holds a tinge of anguish.
I take that to mean I’m not the only one thinking about how this is different from all the other times I’ve been inside of her.
My hands slide inside the waistband of her too-big jeans, working the denim down her hips and over her ass. Her underwear isn’t lace or a thong. It’s simple cotton. Soaked simple cotton. I find her swollen clit under the damp fabric, circling the nub of nerves twice with my thumb.
Carina stutters out my name, her hands searching for purchase before she grips the edge of the desk. Her back arches, the contours of her spine visible in a neat line of vertebrae.
“Fuck, I can’t—please. Please, Lev.”
“Such a good girl,” I praise, slipping my fingers under the wet cotton and spreading her dripping cunt. “Perfect manners while you beg for my cock.”
“I’m not—I can’t—oh, that’s …” Her words dissipate into a series of moans, in perfect synchrony with the spasms of her inner muscles.
I always ensure she comes first. But she’s never come that fast before. I like, more than I should, that it happened for the first time now. There are no illusions between us, not anymore, and she came as soon as I touched her.
Her head turns, inhales ragged and cheeks red. “Sorry. It’s been a while.”
I intend to ask what the fuck she’s apologizing for. Instead, “How long?” comes out.
“Since the …” She hesitates, then continues, “Since the Meridian.”
The last hotel we met at months ago. No one’s fucked her since the last time I did. It shouldn’t matter—I shouldn’t care—yet there’s a hot, possessive flare that suggests it does. That I do.
My balls are heavy and tight. The tip of my cock is leaking. It’s going to be a challenge for me not to come before she does again.
I guide my erection between her spread thighs, finding and smearing the wetness gathered there with the broad head. I feel her cunt contract, trying to pull me inside.
I’ve walked away before. I’ll do it again.
I shove inside of her with one brutal thrust, forcing her to take it all at once.
I’m angry with Carina. Angry with myself. Mostly, I’m mad that this is the last time.
There is no tomorrow.
Not for any version of us.