"We just—you can't possibly?—"
"Watch me."
Her protests dissolve into laughter, then into a low gasp of need as I kick the bedroom door closed behind us.
16
LILA
He tosses me on the bed like I weigh nothing, and I bounce once before settling into the sheets. My whole body is still trembling from the window, from being on display, from the intensity of coming while the city watched.
"Second round already?" I manage, feigning confidence. "Don't you need to recharge?"
"I'm recharging right now." His smile is pure sin as he prowls toward me. "By tasting you."
Oh.
Oh God.
He positions himself between my thighs, spreading them wider, and I instinctively try to close them. It's one thing to be fucked against a window. It's another to have him down there, looking at everything, seeing?—
"Stop thinking," he commands, pressing my thighs open. "Close your eyes. It improves the sensation."
"I don't?—"
"Close them, Lila."
I do, mostly because I can't handle seeing him watch me.The vulnerability is too much. And then his mouth is on me, and I forget why I was protesting in the first place.
His tongue is skilled. Obscenely so. He doesn't lick—he explores, tastes, takes his time learning what makes me gasp versus what makes me moan. He finds the exact pressure and rhythm that has my back arching off the bed.
I try to keep my eyes closed as he said, but it's impossible. They flutter open, and I catch glimpses—his dark hair between my thighs, the way his shoulders flex as he works, the city lights behind him making him look otherworldly.
Then he circles his tongue just right, obliterating coherent thought.
My hands fist in his hair, and I'm creating sounds I've never made before. High, desperate, completely shameless sounds that would mortify me if I could think clearly enough to care.
But I can't think.
Except—
Wait.
The note.
The thought surfaces through the pleasure like oil in water. The delivery driver. The police. Why haven't they arrived yet? It's been what, a whole evening? Shouldn't there be sirens by now? SWAT teams? Something?
Did the driver not report it?
Maybe he thought it was a prank. The note was vague—just "help, I'm being held captive." No details. No address. Maybe it looked fake. Who gets kidnapped and has time to write?—
Ivan's sucks on my clit and my brain static for a second.
What was I—right, the note. The driver. If he took it seriously… fuck.
Any second now, cops could burst through that elevator.
And here I am, naked and vulnerable and being eaten out by a Russian mobster who definitely has multiple warrants and probably keeps guns in every room.
