Page 40 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

I would melt if I wasn’t so sure I was on the precipice of combustion.

Thrill at his words, at the command, zings through my stomach.

My body snaps to do what he says, peeling my nightgown off before my brain can even catch up.

As it slides against my skin and falls to the floor with a soft swish, leaving me completely naked while he’s fully clothed, I’m suddenly grateful for the darkness.

In the dark, I don’t feel like I need to cover my imperfect, dimpled skin, or stretch marks, or moles and divots.

I work hard to love and appreciate my body the way she is—for all the things she does for me, like carrying me through the world—but sensitivity towards the judgments of others is deeply ingrained.

I have good days and bad days like everyone, and most of the time I manage a certain amount of ambivalence towards my appearance and trust that sexual attraction is so deeply personal that there’s no point questioning it.

Now, though? Even ambivalence is tricky when every damn inch of him is so tight and hard, and it’s such a contrast to my own body…

Stop, Nicole. This is what you want, and it’s finally happening. Get out of your own damn head.

I wish I could see him better. My pupils are slowly adjusting to the amount of light, and I can make out his dark shape well enough, but the details are coming in slowly—too slowly for this sharp urgency .

“Nicole,” he groans, his eyes blazing and roving across my bare skin.

It prickles under his gaze, my nipples pebbling as if rising to meet him.

I want to run my fingers through his chest hair and drink my fill of the planes and valleys of his muscular form.

“You wore only the dress with nothing underneath. You hoped I would do more than just find you out there.”

The dark thought is electrifying, and I shiver at the image of him on his knees next to me with his hand disappearing under the skirt of my nightgown while the moon bathes our skin in a milky glow.

“I’ll admit it crossed my mind,” I confess, emboldened by the rawness in his throat and the hunger on his face. “But tonight, I just want it to be like this—you and me. One day, maybe it can be… you and me and the luna .”

His head falls back, and he groans out a string of words I don’t understand, except for one—med. Me.

“Perfect woman,” he says, and I hope it’s a translation. “Perfect, wicked woman.”

Using the back of his collar, he tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it aside. His pants are next. I realize I’ve left distance between us in my eagerness to see him naked, too, and that I’m a fool for it. Why just look when I can touch?

I step forward, reaching for him, and we come together in a full-body press.

He places one hand around the back of my head, tipping it to slant his mouth across mine, and one hand around my waist, holding me steady.

I grip his shoulders, massaging, feeling hard skin and thick scar tissue and rough hair.

He drinks from me, and I rise to meet him.

My blood pounds everywhere at once, beating a rhythm of our desire into my tender flesh over and over.

Dimitri walks us back towards the bed, grips both of my shoulders, and pushes me down onto the mattress .

Thrown off balance by the unexpected move, I simply fall, weightless, before I hit the padded surface. I bounce onto my back, breasts following the momentum of my body, and he’s on top of me before I even lose that momentum.

When his lips come down on mine this time, I try to meet him with equal energy, but he demands control of the kiss. He explores my mouth, forcing my tongue against his, our teeth clicking together. It’s wild, consuming, mindless.

Now, as I touch him, I feel free to explore the hardened planes of his back. I rake my nails against his smooth skin, delighting in how it makes the muscles contract underneath like a wave.

I inhale sharply as his knee wedges between my legs, which hang off the bed.

The sudden pressure brings a heavy pounding to the forefront of my awareness.

I need to be touched so badly. My hips move in small circles of their own volition, trying to get some contact where I ache the most. His quad is so hard, the perfect unyielding surface to get some friction—finally—against my clit.

Realizing what I’m doing, he rears up, breaking the kiss, and presses his leg harder against me, making me whimper.

“Needy woman,” he says, amusement dripping from his low words.

Each roll of my hips makes a soft, wet sound as my sensitive flesh drags across the abrasive hairs on his thigh.

“Would you take your pleasure from me this way, or have me give it to you?”

My mind goes fucking blank at the weird phrasing and frank eroticism of that.

All I can do is whimper in response. His hands circle my waist, stilling me, pressing me into the mattress so I can’t move against him.

I make unintelligible noises at the loss of control, maddeningly frustrated and breathlessly aroused.

“Answer the question, Nicole.”

He asked me a question? Um… Oh, right! The way he said it was confusing, like something was lost in translation or in the clouded desire of my brain, but I think I got the gist. Enough to demand, “Give it to me,” in a half-whisper, half-groan.

He makes a thick noise in his throat and starts moving down my body. “I want to taste you.”

The feeling is so mutual. But I hesitate. I’m not sure how long I can take the foreplay after weeks of gentle, courting touches that hinted and teased what could be. I really, really need to get fucked. Hard. “No, that’s okay. We can just—”

“Just my fingers, then.”

“No, I meant…” I exhale in frustration. I don’t want his mouth or his fingers, I want his cock. “I’m ready. Let’s just skip the foreplay.”

“We cannot skip the foreplay,” he shakes his head.

Wait, a guy is suggesting more foreplay?

I nearly laugh; it’s so absurd when measured against my previous experiences.

“It’ll be okay. I’m already pretty wet, and once we get going and it feels good, I’m good.

Or I can, like, add some spit or something…

” I feel my cheeks heat, blushing like a damn virgin. Explaining this feels weird.

“No.” He’s firm. “I must prepare you for my size.”

I choke on my next breath. That’s not quite what I was expecting to hear. Where did this concern come from? A second ago, he was throwing me around like a pillow.

I try not to let my sexually fueled frustration seem so obvious as I say, “Um… that’s really not necessary. I can… stretch . I know you’re a big person, but I’m also a big person—I think we’ll be okay.”

His smile is little more than a quirk of half his mouth. He pulls back. “Yes, I know you are a large, strong woman. This is good. Even so, I will hurt you if I do not do this first.”

“Oh, come on, Dimitri,” I begin, nearly rolling my eyes as I bend my elbows to prop myself up. The unbelievable audacity of men. “You’re so big that you—”

The sarcastic remark withers on my tongue as he drops his boxer briefs.

Yes. Yes, he is so big. Even in the near-darkness.

I couldn’t begin to guess the length or girth, but it’s definitely among the biggest I’ve ever seen. And I suppose it’s proportional to the size of the rest of him, but… I’m a medical professional. I’ve seen a lot of penises.

None quite like this.

Uncut, it hangs, slightly tipped down from its own goddamn weight.

He looks even bigger, too, since he’s hard, and veins stand out against his pale skin, weaving up from the thatch of dark hair all the way to a purple-red head, which glistens at the very tip.

It’s not pretty—show me a cock that is—but it’s… raw and powerful, like him.

Urgent heat pounds between my legs, reminding me of just how achingly empty I am. I’m desperate to taste that perfect, pearly drop of his desire.

“Certain positions might be uncomfortable for you,” he says, almost chagrined. “You should not be on top, for example. The gravity and full weight of your body may pull you down too much, and it will be too deep and cause pain.”

It’s difficult, but I manage to look away from the one-eyed monster between his legs.

Were it not for the totally grave expression on his face, I would laugh.

But he obviously means it, so I clear it from my throat instead.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. I enjoy being on top. It’s easier for me to come.”

“In the past, perhaps,” he inclines his head. “But I assume that is because it is easier for women to take care of themselves when they are on top. You think I will not take care of you, my med?”

My breath catches. Okay, I need him desperately. Now. However he wants to do it. “Yeah, okay, fingers first,” I say, nodding my encouragement. “I don’t care, just touch me. I need you. ”

I scooch back further toward the middle of the mattress and lie back down. Nerves of anticipation flutter around in my stomach as he comes down on the bed.

He fills the space, hovering just over me on his side. Face to face like this, it’s almost unbelievably intimate as he strokes my cheek. He traces my lower lip with his thumb, and I rake my teeth against the pad. I feel the rumble of his groan through his chest. His lips twitch.

“Are you wet for me, Nicole?”

The question makes my legs tremble, the implication that my body’s responses are his , something for him.

I nod, though I don’t know how to gauge my answer.

I get wet, sure—and I think for me I am very wet, but I don’t know what he wants or expects.

It doesn’t, like, drip down my leg or anything. Lube is my friend.