My arousal has been absurd lately, climbing too fast, too high, my body craving him at stupid moments. He finds the exact rhythm almost immediately, tongue working hard and sure while his hands keep my thighs open, his grip firm and grounding and possessive.
I cannot believe I am about to come in his mother’s hallway.
I cannot believe part of me thinks that’s appropriate punishment for all the things he’s made me feel.
He glances down the hall again, quick and efficient, then goes back to my clit with even more focus. That’s somehow worse. The reminder that we are hidden only by luck and timing makes the pressure build too fast.
“Someone might come,” I say, though it comes out broken and not at all like the warning I intended.
“Then be quiet,” he murmurs against me.
I glare down at him, or try to.
Then he slides two fingers into me at the same time and I lose the ability to be offended.
My forehead hits the wall. Hard enough to sting. I don’t care. He curls his fingers, tongue still working my clit, and my whole body tightens around the coming orgasm in one brutal wave. “Aleksei…”
He groans at the sound of his name and that vibration finishes me.
I come so hard my knees nearly fold. He catches me with one arm around the back of my leg, holding me upright while mybody shakes and clenches and tries not to make enough noise to bring the whole house running.
He works me through it fast, efficient even in this, until I’m oversensitive and weak and barely able to process that I’m still standing.
Then he rises in one smooth movement, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and kisses me.
I can taste myself on him. The shock of it makes me moan softly into his mouth.
His hands settle at my waist, steadying me while I try to remember my own name.
“That,” he says quietly, “was not the reaction of a woman who doesn’t want me.”
I hate that he is right. I hate more that I am too wrecked to lie well. So I put my hand flat against his chest, still breathing hard, and say the only thing I can manage.
“You’re evil.”
His mouth curves. “And yet.”
And yet.
I close my eyes for one second and rest my forehead against his shoulder because standing still feels safer than looking at him right now.
He smooths the skirt back down over my thighs with maddening care, then reaches past me to retrieve the tamarind jar and hands it back like this is the most normal sequence of events in the world.
I take it because apparently that is where my life is now.
I clutch the tamarind jar to my chest and try to recover enough dignity to stand upright.
Aleksei is still too close. Too calm. Too pleased with himself.
I hate that look on him. Mostly because I know I put it there.
So I do the only thing I can think of.
I lie.
“I told you,” I say, forcing my voice into something steadier than I feel, “you aren’t the father.”
His expression barely changes. But his eyes do. They narrow, getting darker like an incoming storm. “Really?” he says.
