“Well, sorry my digestive system isn’t operating on your sexual schedule.” She yanks the sheet up to her chin. “At least it wasn’t a fart.”
Blyat. The laugh bursts out before I can stop it.
Then she starts laughing too, and fuck—her whole face transforms. A dimple appears on her left cheek, tiny and perfect, something I’ve never noticed before.
Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and those killer’s hands clutch her stomach as she doubles over.
Dangerous. This is more dangerous than any weapon she’s ever pulled on me.
“Five car chases and two explosions later,” she wheezes between laughs, “and my stomach decides now is the time to demand breakfast?”
“Lunch,” I correct. “It’s past noon.”
“Whatever.” She wipes her eyes, still grinning. “My energy’s gone. Need food. And,” she plucks at the hospital gown, “real clothes would be nice.”
I grab my spare hoodie from the duffel by the door. Black. Well-worn. It’ll swallow her whole.
“Here.” I toss it at her face. “Only option.”
She catches it one-handed, then reaches for the ties of her hospital gown. Right here. In front of me. In front of the cameras.
Yob tvoyu mat.
Before she can flash my entire security team, I’m across the room. One arm under her knees, one behind her back, and she’s airborne.
“What the—?”
I kick the bathroom door open, deposit her inside, and throw the hoodie after her.
“Change.” I slam the door shut, leaning against it. “Unless you want my men starting a bidding war for that security footage.”
“Aw.” Her voice carries through the door. “Worried someone else might see what’s yours?”
My forehead thunks against the wood. “Just put on the fucking hoodie.”
Fabric rustles. “Or what? You’ll punish me?”
Christ. I need to stop imagining her naked on the other side of this door. But the images flood in, anyway—her bent over my desk, that smart mouth finally shut as I spank her ass red. Her wrists bound to my headboard while I edge her for hours until she’s begging for my cock. Her perfect throat wrapped in my favorite tie while I—
Blyat. When I finally punish her, it won’t be quick. Won’t be gentle.
24
Clara
Thirty minutes later, my thighs grip leather and metal, chest pressed against a back that’s harder than the Ducati’s chassis. The bike purrs between my legs, but that’s not what’s making me dizzy.
“Hands around my waist.” His voice vibrates through his back into my chest.
Ah-huh, you’ve gone mad, Clara.
Indeed, because I slide my hands lower instead.
Much lower.
His abs tense under my fingers as they drift south. Rock-hard muscle jumps under my touch.
The traffic light ahead flashes yellow. He guns it, the bike’s engine screaming as we thread between two SUVs. My fingers slip lower, tracing the edge of his belt. His thighs flex against mine as he maneuvers the bike, and I take advantage of the movement to press my palm flat against him.
