“Interesting. I called the paper yesterday, and they don’t have anyone named Roman Dashkov on staff.”
Tony’s face doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes. A recalculation. “He’s a freelance coordinator. Not technically on staff.”
“Mm-hmm.” I tuck my legs underneath me. “And that article you published about the Moscow art scene last month? The one you mentioned when we first met?”
“What about it?”
“I couldn’t find it anywhere. Not in their archives, not online, not anywhere.”
“It might not have run yet. Editorial delays happen.”
I let out an exhausted huff and snap, “Tony, stop.”
He goes still.
“I’m not an idiot,” I continue. “I’ve been checking your story since the gallery attack. The pieces don’t fit. Your contacts don’t exist. Your published work is a ghost. Whatever you’re doing in Moscow, it’s not journalism.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can almost see him weighing his options. Keep lying and hope I’ll let it go. Tell me the truth and risk everything. Or find another way out of this conversation.
He chooses option three.
Before I can react, Tony reaches across the couch and pulls me into his lap. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is hard enough to make me forget what I was saying. He grabs my hips and positions me so I’m straddling him, and the contact sends heat flooding through my body.
I know he’s doing this to deflect my questions. It’s manipulative and obvious, and I should push him away.
Instead, I grab the front of his shirt and kiss him back.
I want him.
Even knowing he’s hiding something. Even knowing this is probably a terrible idea. The chemistry between us has built since day one, and that interrupted moment in my apartment only made it worse.
I’m so fucking tired of fighting it.
I rock my hips against his, and Tony groans into my mouth as his cock grinds against my core. The sound vibrates through me before settling low in my belly. He slides his palms up my thighs, pushing the hem of my dress higher until cool air hits my bare skin.
“We shouldn’t,” he manages between kisses.
“Definitely not.”
“This doesn’t solve anything.”
“I know.” I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark with want, and his pupils are blown wide. His breathing is ragged, and I feel his heart pounding against my palm where it rests on his chest. “Do you want to stop?”
“No.” The word comes out rough. Almost desperate. “I haven’t wanted to stop since the first time I saw you.”
“Then don’t.”
Without another word, Tony flips us so I’m on my back against the couch cushions, and his body covers mine. He’s still fullyclothed, but I feel every inch of him through the fabric. The weight of his body pressing me down. The thick ridge of his arousal straining against his pants and against my throbbing center.
I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. The position arches my back, pushing my breasts up against his chest.
His breath is scorching against my neck as his lips glide down to my collarbone in a path that leaves fire in its wake. His free hand pushes my dress up to my waist, bunching the fabric around my hips, and he traces his fingers along the edge of my underwear, teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh but not touching where I need him most. “I want to hear every sound you make.”
Cold slides down my back.
There’s something about him—twelve extra years that show up in his patience. He takes his time, builds it slow, until I’m the one on the edge.
His fingers finally slip beneath the fabric, and I gasp when he finds me already soaking wet.
