“I’m scared,” I whisper.
I turn toward him without really thinking about it, my movements slow and uncertain. He’s already looking at me, his gaze steady and unreadable, but not cold. There’s something else there now, something restrained but unmistakable.
I don’t know who moves first. All I know is that suddenly he’s closer, his hand lifting toward my face like he’s giving me time to pull away. He doesn’t touch me right away. He waits, watching my reaction. I don’t pull away.
His fingers brush my cheek gently. The contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear. I lean in to his hand before I can overthink it.
The kiss is tentative at first, almost cautious. His lips press against mine like he’s testing the moment, giving me every opportunity to stop him. I don’t.
The second the kiss deepens, something in me gives way. My hands come up to grip the front of his jacket, anchoring myself to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Heat coils low in my stomach, surprising in its intensity. I press closer without thinking, needing the contact, the reassurance that I’m here and alive and wanted by someone who isn’t just using me. His hand slides from my cheek to my waist, steadying me. The pressure is firm but controlled, not demanding. It makes me feel held instead of trapped.
The kiss becomes slower and deeper, though no less controlled. My thoughts scatter, replaced by sensation. The warmth of his mouth. The faint scent of his cologne. The way my pulse seems to sync with his.
I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe my body is capable of feeling this much when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
His hand moves, exploring cautiously, like he’s checking in with me without words. When his fingers brush my thigh, my breath catches sharply.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I shake my head, the movement frantic. “I don’t.”
The words come out breathless and desperate. That’s all the encouragement he needs.
His hand slips inside my oversized pants, and then his fingers are brushing over the delicate lace of the lingerie I’d picked out for tonight.
Fuck you, Kostya.
His touch sends electricity through me, and I find myself grinding my hips against his hand. He chuckles lightly, his breath fanning against my lips, before he hooks the fabric with one finger and slips another inside me.
He hisses when he feels how tight and wet I am. I moan at how good his finger feels inside of me. This is so surreal, none of this should be happening, but I’m nothing but need now. I’m all raw nerves and sensitivity, feral until I can find a release.
He slips another finger inside and then his thumb is brushing against my clit.
Oh. This is heaven. Or hell. Maybe I’m dead and my afterlife is just endless pleasure.
My fingers tangle in his hair as I cling to him, the orgasm coming over me fast and hard. He keeps moving his fingers inside of me until my body finally relaxes, totally spent and drained.
8
ANDREI
The garage door rolls shut behind us with a low, mechanical hum, sealing out the city in one smooth motion. We made it safely, and that’s the most important thing. Anderson confirms via text that we weren’t followed, and he’s got men stationed around the block to ensure our safety.
I gesture for Alina to follow me, and she does without comment, her movements slow and slightly uncoordinated. The adrenaline that kept her upright in the car is gone now, leaving exhaustion in its wake. She looks smaller in the borrowed sweatsuit, swallowed by fabric that doesn’t belong to her, her shoulders slumped like she’s finally run out of strength to pretend she’s fine.
The little garage apartment we keep in Queens for moments like this is tiny and bare. It has one small bedroom, a bathroom, and an open-concept kitchen and living room.
It’s the perfect place to hide from enemies who’ll look for me at my penthouse or the Ritz Carlton.
“This is it,” I say, my voice low in the quiet space.
She steps inside and pauses, taking it in. The main room is smaller than the hotel’s bathroom. It has a couch against one wall, with a narrow coffee table sitting in front of it. It’s old and worn, probably purchased at a thrift store. Nicolai handled all the details.
I move automatically, switching on the lights as I go.
“Bathroom’s there,” I say, pointing down the short hallway. “Bedroom’s at the end. The door locks from the inside.”
