Page 38

The sound of her bare feet padding across marble draws me down the hallway like a predator following the scent of prey.
I find her in our bathroom, standing before the mirror in nothing but black lace that barely conceals the curves I've memorized with my hands. The memory of her stance at the shooting range burns fresh in my mind—the way she held that Glock like she was born to it, the deadly precision in those blue eyes as she emptied the clip into the center mass. My innocent little wife isn’t so fragile after all.
"Kisa," I murmur from the doorway, watching her reflection meet my gaze in the mirror. "You lied to me."
Her fingers pause on the clasp of her necklace. "About what?"
I step into the bathroom, closing the space between us until the heat of my body presses against her back. My hands find her hips, thumbs tracing the delicate lace at her waist. "About being helpless."
"I never said I was helpless." Her voice carries that careful control she wears like armor, but I feel the slight tremor that runs through her when my lips brush the shell of her ear.
"No?" I slide one hand up her spine, fingers tangling in that auburn silk. "Then why do you play the fragile little bird for everyone else?"
In the mirror, I watch her pupils dilate as my other hand trails lower, skimming the edge of those black panties that have been taunting me since she stepped out of her jeans. The scent of her perfume mingles with something darker—arousal, anticipation, the electric tension that's been building between us all day.
"Maybe," I whisper against her throat, "my sweet wife isn't as innocent as she pretends to be."
Her breath catches as I press closer, the hard evidence of my desire against the small of her back. In the mirror, her eyes are storm-dark, pupils blown wide as I drag my teeth along the elegant column of her throat.
"Answer me, Kira." My voice is rough velvet in the marble-tiled space. "Why do you hide what you are?"
She tilts her head back against my shoulder, exposing more of that pale throat. "Maybe I like keeping secrets."
The admission sends heat straight through me. I fist Kira's hair tighter, angling her head so I can see every flicker of emotion across her face in the reflection. "Bad girls who keep secrets get punished."
A soft whimper escapes her lips, and I feel the way she arches into me, pressing that perfect ass against my growing hardness. The black lace of her panties is already damp when I trace the edge with my fingertips.
"Is that what you want?" I murmur, my free hand splaying across her flat stomach, holding her against me. "To be punished for lying to your husband?"
Her only answer is the way her breathing quickens, the flush that spreads from her cheeks down to the swell of her breasts barely contained by that scrap of lace she calls a bra.
I spin her around, and her legs part instinctively as I step between them, my hands gripping her thighs. The bathroom lights cast shadows across her skin, turning her into something ethereal and dangerous all at once.
"You're going to tell me everything," I promise, my thumb brushing across her bottom lip. "But first, I'm going to show you what happens to bad girls.”
I turn her again and bend her forward, palms flat against the cool marble, her reflection fractured across the mirrored wall. Her hair falls like a curtain of fire around her face as she watches me through hooded eyes. The perfect arch of her spine makes my mouth water.
"You think I didn't notice how your hands never trembled on that trigger?" I growl, gathering the thin lace of her panties and pulling them aside with one finger. The exposure makes her gasp. "How you breathed through each shot like you'd done it a thousand times before?"
The slick heat of her betrays everything her silence tries to hide. I trace my fingers through her wetness, circling but never giving her what she needs. Her hips twitch backward, seeking more.
"Stay still," I command, using my other hand to press between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the counter. "You don't get to decide when you've had enough."
"Mikhail," she breathes, my name a prayer and a curse on her lips.
I unzip my pants, freeing myself, letting the heavy weight of my cock rest against her exposed flesh. The contrast of my olive skin against her pale curves sends electricity down my spine. I slide against her once, twice, coating myself in her arousal.
"Tell me why you pretended," I demand, positioning myself at her entrance but not pushing forward. "Why play weak when you're anything but?"
Her eyes lock with mine in the mirror. "Because people underestimate what they don't fear."
The truth in her words hits me like a bullet to the chest. This woman—my wife—is more dangerous than anyone realizes. The thought makes me throb with need.
"Smart girl," I murmur, and then thrust forward in one smooth motion, burying myself to the hilt.
She cries out, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick marble. I give her no time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm that rocks her forward with each thrust. The bathroom fills with the obscene sound of skin against skin, her soft moans echoing off the tiles.
I gather her hair in my fist, pulling just enough to arch her neck back, forcing her to watch us in the mirror. "Look at you," I rasp against her ear. "Taking your punishment so well."