I settle between her thighs, kissing her inner knee, her thigh, making her wait. Making her squirm. Only when she's whimpering my name do I give her what she wants.
My tongue traces her folds, slow and deliberate. Her hips buck, her hands fisting in the sheets, and I do it again. And again. Learning her, memorizing her responses.
When I finally take her clit into my mouth, she comes undone. Her thighs clamp around my head, her body arching off the bed, and I taste her release—sweet and salty and uniquely Izzy.
I don't stop. I work her through the orgasm, building her back up again, until she's pleading with me, her nails digging into my scalp.
"Please, Sergei, I need—you?—"
I rise up over her, shedding my clothes in record time. She watches through hooded eyes, her breathing still ragged, and reaches for me as I position myself at her entrance.
"Now," she whispers. "Don't make me wait."
I enter her in one slow, deep thrust, and we both groan. She's so tight, so wet, and the feeling of her surrounding me is better than I remembered. Better than anything.
I start to move, slow at first, then faster, harder. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, her hips rising to meet each thrust. Her hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my back, gripping my ass like she's trying to pull me impossibly closer.
"Look at me," I demand, and her eyes flutter open, blue and dark and dazed. "Stay with me."
"I'm here," she gasps. "I'm right here."
I reach between us, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing in small circles that make her clench around me.
"Come for me, Isabelle." I lean down, my lips brushing against hers. "I want to feel you."
That's all it takes. She shatters beneath me, her body convulsing, her inner muscles milking my cock as she cries out my name. I follow her over the edge with a growl, burying myself balls-deep as I pour into her.
We lie tangled together afterward. Our bodies are slick with sweat. We're breathing hard in the darkness. I roll onto my side, pulling her with me. I'm not ready to break the connection yet.
I trace patterns on her back, enjoying the smoothness of her skin, the delicate curve of her spine. She's quiet, her head resting on my chest, her heartbeat gradually slowing to match mine.
This is dangerous. So much more dangerous than the Bratva, than Matthew Ashford, than all the enemies I've ever faced. This thing between us is growing, getting enough power to destroy me. But I can't pull away. Don't want to.
"Hey," she whispers, her voice husky. "You still awake?"
"Unfortunately," I murmur into her hair. "Can't sleep with the Davenport heiress naked in my bed."
Her laugh vibrates against my chest. "The feeling's mutual."
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the house settling and the distant hum of traffic. I run my fingers through her hair, enjoying the simple act of touching her.
At this very moment, all I need and want is her.
Her breathing slows. Deepens. I think she's finally drifting off when her phone buzzes on the nightstand.
She tenses against me, that brief relaxation evaporating like smoke. "It's late. Who would?—"
"Check it."
She reaches over, squinting at the screen. Her face goes pale in the blue glow.
"Wesley."
Something cold spreads through my chest. Wesley doesn't call at midnight with good news. Wesley calls at midnight when the world's about to burn.
"Answer it."
She does, putting it on speaker. "Wesley. What's wrong?"
