Page 50 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Better make the most of this.

I roll my hips, grinding my clit into his pelvic bone and rocking back and forth along his length. I can feel my pussy gripping him, trying so hard not to let him go, just as much as I can feel that dull ache of the stretch when I pull him all the way back in.

His eyes are locked in, staring at where our bodies are joined. I know he’s seeing how his own thick, hard length emerges, shining with the moisture of both our bodies, only to disappear into my swollen skin. “You take me so well, my med. You like it deep, da ?”

Concentrating so I can finish before he takes over, all I can do is nod with my eyes closed.

The sum of the sensations is amazing. Even though my hips creak a little, my thighs spread so wide over his that I don’t have much leverage, I love being able to move exactly how I like.

I love being able to fill my hands with him for once, to tease him with my body as I take what I want.

“Deep and hard,” he groans.

“Yes… it’s so good, Dimitri. I’m… so… close…” I murmur, feeling the tension building deep inside.

That was apparently what he was waiting for.

In an instant, I’m off-balance, falling backwards, and he’s rolling on top of me.

I don’t think his cock even slips out as he finds his position between my legs.

And then he’s kissing me with bruising force, slamming into me and drawing a cry from me that he consumes into his own mouth at the apex of each thrust.

That’s how I come, writhing underneath all his power and force, completely at his will, loving every inch and second of it.

The build was slow and comfortable, but the release is a crack of lightning—stunning, bright, intense, and quick.

I lose myself, my grip on reality, and some of my sanity as my body shudders in its release.

He’s right on my heels, so lost that he can’t focus on our kiss, dropping his head into the crook of my neck as he groans. I stroke his back with my fingernails, earning little shivers from him and a deep rumbling laugh that makes me wonder if he isn’t a tiny bit ticklish.

Ticklish Dimitri? What an almost unbelievably charming thought.

Once he has himself under control, he pulls back and catches my eye.

I can’t decipher the look on his face, but it’s not just the thorough satisfaction of a good sexual release.

There’s something else in there, buried deep, and it’s inherently somber and conflicted.

Not wanting to let it intrude on our happy moment, I wrap my arms around his neck and draw his mouth back down on mine.

He tastes like a combination of the two of us and a little bit of bitter morning breath that doesn’t even bother me.

I melt against him as he deepens the kiss.

His tongue sweeps just inside, tangling with mine.

The scratch of his regrowth against my lips and chin is uncomfortable, but I lean into it harder.

I want to feel him after he’s gone, even if it’s in the rawness of chafed skin.

Like he senses I need it—or maybe he does—he stays with me, making out and taking comfort and pleasure in the closeness, until I pull back first. I sigh to myself as he rolls away and gets to his feet. Reaching for my glasses, I get them on just in time to watch his ass disappear into the bathroom.

I’m dozing when he emerges from the office/closet, fully dressed. I open one eye sleepily, then sit up with a start, wide awake .

Holy fucking fuck. I forgot how good he looked in a suit.

How is it possible for him to look better wearing clothes than being naked?

My eyes scan zigzags up and down his body, taking in the way the slacks tighten around his hips and his biceps strain against the nice shirt.

He’s clean, sharp, polished. Between the clothes, the scarred face, and the air of menace, he’s like a Bond villain.

“A little fancy for a workout,” I remark dryly despite a racing heart. I am so going to jump his bones later.

“Viktor Volkevich will be visiting his casino tonight, so we are moving forward with the plan. Wesley, James, and I will spend some time preparing, and we will be back very late.”

My brows shoot up, but I don’t say anything. Viktor Volkevich. The infamous Bratva Pakhan, whose USB I apparently had shoved down my throat. His death means my ultimate release. My return to normalcy.

No wonder that look Dimitri gave me was so conflicted—he’s obviously about to do something dangerous. My stomach flips over, suddenly nervous for him.

I take a long gulp of water and bring my knees up into a crisscross seated position. “I’m surprised you can even find nice clothes that fit you,” I say, knowing at least this is a safe topic.

He turns and assesses the fit in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

“No one with shoulders as wide as mine would ever choose to wear a suit,” he agrees.

“If the jacket is large enough for me to move freely, it is baggy and ill-fitting. I am too large to simply walk into a store; I have to get everything tailored or made.”

“Sounds expensive and time-consuming.”

He sits on the bed to pull on some silk socks and lace his fancy, uncomfortable-looking leather shoes. “Perhaps, though Helga is an excellent seamstress, even if she insults me under her breath the entire time she is pinning the fabric. And she knows I speak German. ”

I hide a smile by pressing my lips together. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Four,” he shrugs. “German and English are close, so it was not so hard to learn both.”

It’s a strange thing that this is what cuts through the haze of denial.

Seeing him in a suit again—a throwback to the night we met that started with such bright, bubbly happiness, only to melt into panic and fear—and being reminded that he knows more languages than anyone I’ve ever met is a sort of wake-up call.

I swallow and look down at my hands. “I think I just realized how long the list of things I still don’t know about you is.”

The bed dips by my feet, and his hand is warm around the side of my neck, tilting my head up towards him. “We have time for these discussions,” he says.

I feel the line form between my brows. “Do we?”

I’m filled to the brim with uncomfortable questions that sour my stomach and dissolve any of the lingering happiness from waking up and having Dimitri rearrange my guts.

How long until I can go home? What happens then? Will he still want to… date? Is that what we’ve been doing? It doesn’t feel like it. So how would we even begin to navigate a casual relationship after all this? Should we even try?

I think I prefer being in denial.

“We have time,” he repeats.

Don’t worry about it, not yet, he seems to say.

I nod.

He pulls me forward, meeting me halfway, and presses a kiss to the middle of my forehead.

He leaves, then, and I fall back against the pillow with a sigh, staring at the beams in the ceiling. We have time , he says. Too bad I’m a serial overthinker—it’s a skill to be so many steps ahead of myself, truly .

Objectively, it hasn’t been that long, but I already have a hard time picturing myself going back to my old life.

And I loved my old life, as messy and chaotic as it sometimes was.

I miss work. I miss the sterile smells of the hospital, and the camaraderie of bitching about a trouble patient at the nursing station.

I miss feeling safe enough to leave the house.

I miss the comfort of being surrounded by my own stuff.

I miss having full control over every decision I make.

It’s not uncomfortable here by any means, but there’s a world of difference between waking up and thinking, “what should I do today” and “what can I do today.”

I jump out of bed and head towards the shower. I need to rinse away the evidence of how Dimitri says good morning, then I need to put on some bike shorts and release some of this nervous energy. Maybe I’ll hit something. That sandbag in the gym will do.