He’s hard.
Does this man always have a hard-on? Maybe it’s normal? I’ve never asked, or been the sort of person who had friends who would tell her. I work at the bar, and I’m very much a turn up, do my job, then go home kind of person. Not a drink afterwards and hang out person, though I wouldn’t mind. But no one ever invited me. And I have never thought to search online for how often men get erections.
But now, I have questions. Big ones. He’s so controlled. I squirm against his length, and he drags in a steadying intake of breath, but doesn’t otherwise respond.
Maybe this is his kink? Self-denial? Seems unlikely for someone like Kirill. He occurs to me as more of a see, want, take sort of man.
I look up, and Kirill is regarding me. Those long lashes are so pretty, and the dark, sandpapery stubble on his jaw is almost a shock by comparison. He’s a study in contrasts. The grey eyes that are so expressive and full of life. His tattoos that are like a computer’s circuit board. His grumpy attitude and the flashes of humour.
He dips his head fractionally, as though our mouths are magnets, pulled together. There’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the thud of my pulse.
I lick my lips, and his gaze lowers momentarily, then snaps up to my eyes.
I want him to kiss me.
The acknowledgement is a rush of adrenaline. This is crazy. The promise in the way he’s holding me, the hot bar of his erection, and the memory of our chase and how he crashed me into orgasm then carried me carefully home—back to his home—conspires to make me tingle with a desire I’ve never felt before.
Kiss me, I beg him in my thoughts. I open my lips in invitation.
“Lapochka…” he says softly, and for a second I’m sure that he’s going to take exactly what his body obviously wants.
I’m shockingly on board with that idea.
He heaves in a breath, then leans back and exhales hard.
My heart slumps to my toes, then a bit further as he gently but firmly lifts me from his lap and onto my feet.
“Go and read, and no more attempting to contact anyone. That’s my third favour.” His voice is taut, and he releases me.
I’m instantly cold.
“Delicious breakfast foods and lots of reading time,” I quip as I head back to my sofa and pick up the e-reader. “Who said I was trying to escape?” My cheerfulness is a transparent attempt to disguise that I know he doesn’t like me enough to kiss me.
“Mmm.” He scowls, and it’s unclear whether that rumble from his throat is agreement.
No one else ever has, so why would Kirill, who is clever, dangerous, rich and powerful, be any different?
12
KIRILL
It was the right thing not to kiss her.
I repeat that over and over in my head as we have lunch together and then I continue my work late into the afternoon. Tess is distracting, but I’m annoyed to find that I enjoy her company. She mostly sprawls on the sofa, reading, shifting positions from sitting, to lying on her back, or her stomach.
Every new movement has me imagining railing her there. My erection takes up so much blood, I double-check all my work because I’m convinced the distraction will mean I make a mistake as I try to keep my attention on my favourite part of the process that ends up with me having a captive. Stripping the assets of the man in question, and finding creative ways to give them to the children he hurt.
Usually, I draw out the time with my victims and make them pay. Have them reveal everything about their friends, and savour their agony.
Today, I work as quickly as possible. It still feels good, but I settle for unimaginative solutions like bank errors, lottery wins, and an anonymous trust fund for the younger kids.
Since my victim is dead now, I can’t discuss with him who he’s linked with offline, or make him sorry for the pain heinflicted. I set up a fresh online trap to catch a new prisoner, and try not to think about what I’m going to do with Tess.
I can’t quite shake the echo of what Tess said last night about me wanting company, and there being better people than my evil victims.
Her. There’s her. I think I’d like to keep Tess as my captive, which is pretty fucked up even for me.
In the end, I make her dinner. My staff has discreetly stocked up everything I’d need, including quick options, but I find I want the honest labour of cooking for her, and the cosy isolation of it being just the two of us and no one else here.
