“Relax,” I murmur. “This part won’t hurt.”
I work the gel into the first welt with slow, careful strokes, feeling the heat of her skin, the way her body gradually softens under my hands. The tension drains out of her shoulders, and her breathing evens out.
“You counted,” I say quietly, moving to the second welt.
“You told me to count.”
“Most people lose track.” I press my thumb against the edge of the mark and watch goosebumps rise across her skin. “They get overwhelmed by the pain. They forget the number. They break.”
“I don’t break easily.”
“No.” My hand slides lower, working the gel into the third welt, dangerously close to the crease where her thigh meets her ass. “You don’t.”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Dmitri gave me a note. At dinner.”
My hands go still.
“I know,” I say. “Luka saw him pass it.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“I can guess. Transportation out of Moscow. New identity. Protection from me and my family in exchange for your cooperation.”
She turns her head, one grey eye visible over the curve of her shoulder. “And you’re not worried?”
“About what?”
“That I’ll take it.”
I resume working on the welts, keeping my touch steady. “You’re still here.”
“I am.”
“In my study. At five in the morning. Wearing my shirt.” My fingers trace the curve of her hip, skirting the edge of the fourth welt. “If you were going to run, you wouldn’t be letting me put my hands on you right now.”
“Maybe I’m gathering intelligence.”
“Maybe you like it.”
The words come out low and rough, and her whole body reacts. Her breath catches. Her thighs press together. Her fingers curl into the leather cushion.
“Roman—”
“You were dripping last night.” I push the shirt higher, all the way up to her shoulder blades, and run my palm down the length of her spine.
“It didn’t mean—”
“It meant you want me.” I lean down, pressing my mouth to the curve of her spine. “It meant some part of you got off on being held down and reminded who you belong to.”
She doesn’t say anything. Her breath is coming faster now, shallow and quick, and when I look down, I can see the wet shine between her thighs where her legs are pressed together.
“Spread your legs,” I say.
She doesn’t move.
“Anya.” My hand settles on the back of her thigh, thumb brushing the crease where it meets her ass. “Spread your legs.”
“This isn’t—” She swallows hard. “We shouldn’t—”
