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I release her finger with a pop of my lips. Her hand is left hovering in the small space between us, slick and trembling. That’s how I need her pussy. I need the whimper I just know she’s harboring within the chest that’s rising and falling in such an erratic rhythm.

I lean into her, uncaring about my arm still being in a sling between us. “Do you taste this sweet all over?” I exhale at her ear.

Her eyes are black. The grey’s been swallowed whole. She tries to nod again, and I seize her chin in the cradle of my palm.

“Give me words, beautiful.”

When she speaks, her voice is low and throaty and coming apart at the seams. “Do you want to find out?”

There she is.

“You have no idea,” I groan and cradle the back of her head, drawing her mouth to mine at last.

The way that Meera Gallagher kisses is contrary too. Her hands land on my chest with more gentleness than I’ve ever known. She touches me like I’m a box marked Fragile: Handle with Care instead of a high-ranking member of the bratva and a stone-cold killer to boot. Yet her kiss is tongue and teeth, feral with barbed desire we swap between us. Her palms are so warm, cascading softly down the planes of my chest. They settle at my waist, demure in their placement, like she doesn’t tremble with need when I rub my hardening cock against her belly.

“Sweet,” I praise. My head ducks, dragging down the column of her throat. Her instincts are on my side, tipping her head back and inviting my mouth to lay whatever claim I’d like. Not for the first time today, I’m grateful the clinic had all the amenities for a satisfying shower. I breathe in the warm perfume of lilies. “You smell so fucking good.”

The possibilities alone threaten to leave my head reeling.

Unfortunately, my inopportune injury limits the fucking options some. I want to spread her out, right here on my counter, and bury my face in her pussy, holding her open with a relentless grasp on those plush thighs, no matter how much she squirms. However, with one arm in a sling, I’ve only got a hand at my disposal—and it needs my fingers buried inside of her while she comes all over my tongue.

“You make my knees weak,” Meera gasps into the hinge of my jaw, sounding dazed.

“I’ve barely gotten started,” I promise.

No sooner have I groaned the words that the idea sparks alive in my head. My hand falls from its grasp in her hair to the small of her back, dragging her even tighter against me. I make her match me step for step as I guide her along with me on the path I pave: all the way from the edge of the kitchen into the living room.

When I break our kiss, Meera unleashes a wounded little whine between us. It’s a credit to my goddamn self-control, that I don’t say fuck it, rip the fucking arm-sling off, and drag her to my bed. It takes every modicum of it to, instead, calmly coax her, “Take off your clothes for me,” not asking, but not commanding her either. To settle down into cool velvet to admire her and not rip fabric apart with my fucking teeth.

“Oh my God,” Meera says to herself, her head shaking. Yet whatever self-consciousness roils inside of her head can’t keep her hands from reaching for the hem of the sweater Yulia must’ve lent her. She peels it off her body in a single, sweeping movement—and, just like that, there’s so much of her to bask in, to touch, to taste.

My mouth waters at the sight of her full, heavy tits in the bra I’d picked out of her underwear drawer. “Come here,” I beg. All she has to do is take a single step to get within reach, and I can mouth at the hard bud straining against the cup.

It stokes my hunger for her when she beams. “I thought you wanted me to strip for you,” Meera says. “Like you paid for, no?”

She’s joking, I am aware. Teasing. Playing. The implication still has me seeing red.

“No,” I growl, and hook a hand into the band of her jeans to haul her toward me. She stumbles between my legs with a squeak, and I trap her ankles with mine, locking her in place. A hand is all I need to undo the snap on her jeans and undo the zipper, managing not to tear it open like the barbarian I feel like. I mouth at the soft skin beneath her navel, the tip of my nose dragging a line from there to the front of panties I also chose. Breathing in the warm musk of her, I demand, “Who could put a price on this?”

Her hands grip at my shoulders, hard. Hard enough to make me wince and remember the bullet that tore through me two days ago. The plump globe of an ass my hand relocates to with a smack has medicinal properties med school just doesn’t teach enough people. I breathe her in again and bathe in her heat.

“Sorry, sorry,” Meera says quickly, petting apologetically at my head.

My head dips between her thighs, tongue trailing down thin, damp cotton. “Those are just two words you never have to say to me, Meera Gallagher.”

“No?” Meera says, but there’s no bite to it. If anything, she’s short of breath. As much as I want to, I don’t drag out the task of undressing her any further. I make quick work of pulling down her jeans—though I leave her panties on, loving the sight of their color changing with her creamy arousal. My gaze drops to see her knees literally shaking.

My exhale is a groan, sounding tortured to my own ears. “I’d rather you just say my name.”

“Leonid,” Meera breathes like she can’t help it.

I can’t help but grin, needing it but unable to spare the palm to give my stiff cock some relief. This hand has better things to do. Things like hooking into her panties and tugging her along when I recline, turn, lay myself out on the sofa, and coax her toward me until I can hook my hand at the back of her knee. “Pretty,” I praise, head turning to kiss the outer curve of her luscious hip. “But I’m going to need you to cry that out for me. I’ll have to earn that, won’t I? You’re not the kind of woman who cries too easily.”

“Oh, God—” Meera covers her face with her hands, but I can still see the way her head shakes. So self-conscious.

I yank her forward, using the opportunity to force her to straddle my face. It’s a choice she squirms against the moment I pull her weight on me—but her reaction is one I’d anticipated. A harsh palm on her ass is enough to hold her to me, the wet spot on the gusset of her panties directing my mouth to latch between her legs. All five fingertips dig, rocking her against me, demanding her acceptance.

As it turns out, Meera Gallagher is the kind of woman who cries out just fine. She does it beautifully, wildly, needily. The way it bounces off the glossy surfaces of my penthouse threatens to turn it into a church like this.