He spreads out his hands. “Possibly. But Michaelsson lives in Carson City, so I imagine she has been up there for a while.”
“When I saw you yesterday, I didn’t expect to feel the way I did, but you seemed familiar. You share her eyes. The shape of your face is similar, but I think she has had work done…” he trails off. “This doesn’t change anything between us.”
“Doesn’t it? I came back to meet you in good faith. You said you wanted to see me again, alone, because you wanted to figure out if we both felt this…whatever this is…then you ambush me about my mother, screw me absolutely senseless in your office, drag me up to your suite, and tell me you suspected my mother was back all along?”
I take a breath, trying not to let the confusion turn to hurt.
“My head is spinning. Nothing makes sense. Do you want me or do you just want a way to my mother?” Energy drains from me. All the exhaustion I’ve been staving off with bad coffee and “just one more meeting,” has finally caught up with me and I slump onto the sofa opposite him, the news anchor still talking in the background.
“All of it is true, apart from wanting to use you to get to your mother. The moment I saw you something switched inside me. It wasn’t love, or lust, it was more primal than that. You were all I could think about every single second after I forced myself to walk out of the office.
It’s an obsession that’s eating me from the inside. I’ve just had you, taken you, twice and still all I can think about it the way you feel on me, against me…the way you sound. And it’s not even justabout the sex. I want to be able to see you every minute of every day for the rest of my life.”
He heaves a breath, his eyes not leaving mine.
“It’s insane, but I want you forever. Every part of you, even if that means accepting who your mother is. I want the world to know you belong to me and I’ll burn it down before I let another man anywhere near you.”
Silence falls between us but for the television on low in the background.
Finally, he says, “I can’t even call it ‘love,’ because I don’t know what romantic love feels like. And how can I expect you to love me after only a day? But I know I want to worship you, over and over and over until you forget every bad thing and in its space is me.”
“Don’t,” I say. I’m so confused and the heat that bloomed between my thighs at his words won’t help matters.
“Please, Jessica. Let me.”
Rurik
I watch her slump onto the sofa opposite me, the weight of the day crashing down on her like a wave she can't outrun. The news drones on in the background, cycling through headlines that no longer matter. Not to me, at least. Not when Jessica is here, her green eyes shadowed with exhaustion, her body still carrying the marks of what we've done. She's a storm contained in fragile skin, and every instinct in me screams to shelter her from it.
"Don't," she whispers, but her voice lacks conviction. It's laced with the same confusion that's twisting her up inside, the same heat that's been simmering between us since the moment our paths crossed.
"Please, Jessica. Let me."
I don't wait for more protest. I rise from my seat and cross to her in two strides, dropping to one knee in front of her. Her breath hitches as I reach for her, my hands gentle but firm on her knees, parting them just enough to slide between.
She's still in that damn skirt and blouse, rumpled from earlier, and the sight of her like this, vulnerable, spent, yet radiating that quiet fire, stirs the primal thing in my chest that I only discovered yesterday.
"Rurik..." Her voice is a soft warning, but her body betrays her, leaning into my touch as I run my palms up her thighs,pushing the fabric higher. I can feel the tremor in her muscles, the lingering ache from our encounters in the office.
"Shh," I murmur, my eyes locked on hers. "You've fought enough today. Let me take care of you."
I start with her blouse, my fingers deft on the buttons, popping them open one by one. The silk parts like a curtain, revealing the lace bra beneath, her skin flushed and marked faintly where my grip was too tight earlier.
I slide the blouse off her shoulders, letting it pool on the sofa behind her. She doesn't resist; instead, her head falls back slightly, a sigh escaping her lips as I trail my fingertips down her arms, raising goosebumps in their wake.
"You're beautiful," I say, my voice low and rough. It's not flattery, it's a fact. Every curve, every freckle, every inch of her is mine now, and I intend to worship it properly.
Next, the skirt. I find the zipper at her side and ease it down, hooking my fingers into the waistband along with her panties, which are still damp from before. She lifts her hips without me asking, helping me slide them off in one smooth motion, leaving her bare from the waist down.
Her legs part wider instinctively, and the sight of her exposed like this, glistening and ready, sends a surge of heat straight to my groin.
I lean in, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then higher, tasting the salt of her skin. She gasps, her hands finding my hair, threading through it as if to anchor herself. "Rurik, you don't have to—"
"I want to," I cut her off, my breath hot against her core. "I need to taste you. Taste us. Need to make you forget everything but this."
I don't linger or tease. Not tonight. I part her folds with my thumbs and dive in, my tongue flat and broad as I lick a slow, deliberate stripe from her entrance to her clit. She arches off the sofa with a cry, her fingers tightening in my hair.
The sweet, musky taste of her, mixed with the faint salt of my own release from earlier drives me wild. I groan against her, the vibration making her hips buck.
