Page 29

Which is supposed to be just for show. A blunt way of proving to Miguel that I have, without any question, moved on. Not to mention a simple way to prevent Dimitry from committing whatever act of violence I’m fairly sure he’s contemplating.

Except that the second my lips touch Dimitry’s, he takes my mouth like he’s been waiting for me forever.

His huge arms lock me into him like a vise, one hand splayed on my lower back and the other grasping the nape ofmy neck, making me feel more cradled than I ever have in my life. And he doesn’t just kiss me back. He possesses my mouth with such fierce heat that by the time I come up for air, I’ve forgotten Miguel even exists, let alone standing barely ten paces away.

“Hey, Skip,” Dimitry says, grinning down at me. “Sorry I’m late. I should have called earlier.” Pulling me to his chest, one hand wrapped around my head, he tilts his chin at Miguel over my shoulder. “Think my girl here wants to close up, champ.” His voice rumbles against my cheek. He smells of smoke and spicy aftershave, and I want to melt into him.

Miguel doesn’t answer, just stalks past us, slamming the door on his way out. I don’t look up from Dimitry’s embrace until he’s gone.

He leans over me and locks the door behind Miguel, still holding me close.

“Thank you,” I mumble against his chest.

“I think it’s your ex I should be thanking.” I peek up to find him grinning down at me. “I suppose I’ll have to buy that idiot a beer next time he’s in Pillars, just to keep the peace.”

I half laugh, half sob. “Don’t bother. He’s an asshole. Pillars is full of them, like you said.”

“I don’t want to talk about Pillars. Or about your idiot ex.” He tilts my face up. “I’d far rather do this again,” he murmurs, then lowers his mouth to mine.

Holy shit.

The man doesn’t just kiss. He turns it into a fucking art form.

His hand is in my hair, and his tongue is toying with mine like I’m some kind of sweet he can’t wait to devour. His mouth dips and dives, taking mine and teasing it in equal parts, his large hand resting on the base of my spine, his fingers slipping into the top of my denim shorts to grasp my ass and push me harder against him.

My breasts are crushed against the rock-hard slab of his chest, my nipples are about to burst through my bra, and if I was any wetter, my knickers could wash the walls.

“Where are the lights?” he murmurs against my mouth.

“No,” I protest feebly, trying to squirm out of his grasp. “We can’t—not here—and I need to have a shower—”

“Fuck all that,” he growls against my ear. “You’ve been driving me nuts in those damned hotpants for months. I want them off, and then I want to fuck you, and after that, we can talk about who’s place we’re going to so I can do it again, slowly.”

I moan. I can’t help it.

The fact is, I was lost the minute his mouth hit mine.

Or maybe I was lost the first time he strolled into the café and called me Skippy.

And I couldn’t care less where he takes me, so long as I get the hard, throbbing shaft behind his suit pants inside me as soon as possible.

I hit the lights, and Dimitry punches the button that lowers the steel shutters outside the windows. Then he picks me up and sits me on the counter. “Arms up,” he orders.

Giggling, I raise my arms, and he pulls the T-shirt over my head and throws it. It lands on one of the bottles behind the bar, and a moment later my bra is hanging over the glasses tray.

“You know,” he says, cupping my breasts in his hands, “I’ve given a lot of thought to what these would look like.” He bends down, his clever tongue rolling first one, then the other nipple, making me gasp and clutch his hair. “I’m pleased to report,” he says as he lathes my swollen flesh, “that the reality far surpasses my imagination.”

His tongue sends a lightning pulse from each nipple straight to my groin. I’m so swollen that even the seam of my shorts is driving me crazy. I’ve gone from utter terror to wet,pulsing arousal in a matter of minutes, and for once, I seriously don’t want to wait. I just want Dimitry, hard and fast.

I wrap my legs around him, pressing him in close to me, reaching for his shirt. He pulls back, his eyes roaming over me as I unbutton it with not-quite-steady fingers.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Abby.” He’s not grinning anymore, and his eyes have turned from steel gray to the leaden darkness of a winter sea.

I push the shirt from his shoulders, my fingers tracing the ink and scars that cover them. “So are you,” I whisper.

I touch a twisted circle of scar tissue, and Dimitry shivers slightly. His hand covers mine, moving it away from the scar and slowly downward, to his belt buckle. His other hand twists the button of my shorts.

“Off,” he commands, and I wriggle my ass as he pulls them down, taking my underwear with them. He kisses me again as I open his belt, and I moan into his mouth as one big hand spreads me open, the calloused fingers as delicious on my skin as I’ve been imagining them to be for weeks now.