"This isn't a joke."
"Do I sound like I'm laughing?"
His hand found my face. The touch jolted through me—warm, firm, his thumb pressing hard enough against my jaw that I felt the calluses on his skin.
"If Viktor suspects even a fraction of what you just told me?—"
"Viktor thinks I'm wallpaper with a pulse. They all do." I covered his hand with mine. Pressed it harder against my skin. It'd been so long since anyone had touched me in a way that didn't involve helping me not to fall. "That's the point. That's always been the point."
"And what about me?" His voice was low and rough. "You're tellingmethis stuff. Why? You don't know who I work for. What I'd do with this."
I interrupted him. "I know you haven't told Viktor that I'm sharper than he thinks. You've had weeks of watching me, and you haven't reported a single thing that would put me at risk." I traced the ridges of his knuckles with my fingertips. "And I know you hurt somebody who meant me harm."
His hand stilled under mine.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I heard the scuffle and him cry out. I didn't know exactly what happened, but I knew it was you."
I let that sit for a moment.
"Like everything else, I filed it away." I traced a slow circle on the back of his hand. "Am I wrong?"
His fingers curled against my jaw. His thumb found my cheekbone and stayed there, pressing lightly, like he was memorizing the shape of it.
"You're terrifying," he said. "You know that?"
I turned my face into his palm and brushed my lips against the heel of his hand.
His other hand found the back of my neck and his fingers slid into my hair like they always did. It was a possessive gesture, and I fucking loved it. "Is that why you're pulling away from me?" I asked.
"I'm not pulling away," he said, His breathing was ragged and uneven and honest. "I'm trying not to wreck your life."
"Maybe I want to be wrecked."
His grip tightened in my hair. A sharp sting that ran down my spine and pooled hot between my hips. "You don't know what that means."
"Then show me."
I pulled him closer by the front of his shirt.
He resisted, but only for a second before his mouth found mine.
This wasn't like the hallway, or even like my apartment. Those kisses had been a collision. Angry, punishing, a man furious at his own want. This one was so much worse.
This one was slow.
This time he kissed me like he was trying to memorize shape of my mouth. His tongue traced my bottom lip, then slid inside, tasting me in long, deliberate strokes that made my thighs clench and my fingers curl into his shirt. His hand in my hair tilted my head exactly where he wanted it, controlled even now, with his pulse slamming against my palm where I'd pressed it to his throat.
I moaned into his mouth, and he stiffened against me.
The slowness shattered. His arm banded around my waist and hauled me off my feet and into his lap as he sat, I had no idea on what, my knees landing on either side of his hips. There was cold stone beneath his thighs, but he was furnace-hot, and when my hips settled against his, I felt exactly what I'd done to him.
His cock was hard and thick. Straining against his pants and pressing right against the place where I was already wet and aching.
"Fuck," he hissed against my mouth.
The sounds of the city around us faded away as I rolled my hips, slow and deliberate. Grinding myself against the ridge of himthrough layers of material that suddenly felt like too much and not enough.
His hands clamped down on my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks I'd feel for days.
