Page 19

19

LUCIA

I stand under the shower, my skin so sensitive even the water feels erotic. My phone is propped up on the shower wall. I try not to stare it.

Call me, you bastard.

It’s almost eleven. The children and I walked the entire length of the waterfront, stopping for evening tapas in a mosaicked piazza where twinkling fairy lights glittered off the night sea, but I’m still strung tight as a high wire. It’s a miracle I managed to get the kitchen cleaned and the children into bed with anything even remotely resembling calm.

All I can see is his dark eyes watching me across the kitchen. Even the recollection of the savagery in their depths makes me shiver. He looked like he wanted to fuck me and kill me at the same time.

My body has been thrumming like a tuned instrument ever since, waiting on tenterhooks for his summons.

No. Not waiting.

Hoping.

But so far, nothing.

And what does that mean, anyway? It was just a look.

I turn the water off and step out of the shower. Even the touch of the towel on my overly sensitive flesh feels like foreplay.

Damn you for waking my body up. Now I seem to be existing in a permanent state of suspended desire, just marking time until Roman touches me again. I crave his touch as much as I resent him for making me want it.

But I also need to face facts.

Roman clearly doesn’t feel the same way. And although I can’t pretend that doesn’t hurt, it isn’t as if he’s made me any kind of promise beyond that contract. I know I have no right at all to expect more from him than what we agreed on.

That doesn’t stop me feeling thoroughly shaken up, and more confused than I’ve ever been.

If I’m honest with myself, it isn’t just Roman who has rattled me. Being with the children has thrown me off-balance. Or rather, how I feel when I’m with them has taken me by surprise. As if some hole within me that I didn’t know existed has been filled.

And that is just as dangerous as waiting for Roman to call.

More, maybe.

Being with the children, even for one day, has been deeply, profoundly satisfying. Watching Masha, tongue poked out and face screwed up in concentration, determinedly trying to mix a bowl almost bigger than she is. Finding the first cracks in Ofelia’s haughty armor and watching her gradually relax into normal teenage banter. Seeing Mickey’s shyness drop and his natural intelligence emerge.

In only a day, I’ve learned so much about them all—and even more about myself.

There was only Alexei and me when I grew up. We were a close family, it’s true, but we were also incredibly isolated. We didn’t have cousins or grandparents. My mother was an illegal immigrant from Colombia, an orphan when she met my father. I’ve never known anything about Papa’s family except that they are all dead. Mine wasn’t a house where other children came to play. At school, I was quiet and withdrawn. Even then, I knew my family was different than everyone else’s. Knew that other children didn’t have security guards who drove them to school in a limousine or live in a vast compound in the wealthy suburb of Coconut Grove, with a private jetty and armed men at every corner.

And after Papa’s stroke and Mama’s death, after everything went wrong, I knew the burden of being the eldest of two children, responsible for my little brother and the only one capable of saving Papa.

That’s why I understand the stiffness in Ofelia’s posture, her constant watchfulness. The way she’s attuned to every emotional undercurrent and has a light in her eyes that looks far too old for her years. It’s all horribly familiar.

The way she clams up whenever her mother is mentioned, however, is not. That worries me, tugs at my heartstrings.

I walk naked into the darkened kitchen of my apartment, looking for the baby monitor. I installed it myself, not to spy on the kids, but because I’m terrified something will happen and I won’t be there to help them.

Damn. I’ve left the receiver in the other apartment. I pull on one of the lace-edged cami sets, then, on second thought, take it off and pull on a long silk robe. Somehow I don’t think Roman would be overly happy at his guards ogling me in my pajamas.

“So, no pajama parties, then?”

“Pajamas play no part whatsoever in any of my plans, I assure you...”

Shivering at the memory of the dark gleam in his eyes, I wonder if everything I do from now on is going to remind me of Roman.

Slipping through the door, I give a surprised-looking Bryce a quick wave, then go into the children’s apartment. It still smells of sweet caramel, warm and comforting. I pad down the corridor. Masha’s bedroom door is open. She’s sprawled face down like a starfish, a low bedside light casting soft waves across the ceiling. I leave her door open and move down to Ofelia’s. No light shows through the crack in her door. I push it open gently. Her long figure is curled into a tight ball, the covers clutched hard in one fist. Even in sleep, she looks tense. The light from the corridor falls on the blonde strands of hair wrapped around her face. I cross the floor and gently brush them back, touching a kiss to her temple, then draw the door back as I found it.

Mickey has fallen asleep with his laptop open on the bed. I take it, careful not to disturb him, and put it on the desk. Brown curls flop over his face, and in the strange half-light, I can see the hard planes of the man he will become lurking under the boyish softness. Mickey might not know it yet, but he’s going to be every bit as handsome as the picture of his father he has by his bedside.

I find the monitor where I left it, tucked in a cupboard above the stove. On impulse, I pick up the pot of leftover caramel from the stovetop, still liquid in the warm spring night.

I’m not going to sleep anytime soon. I may as well make something.

I tiptoe out of the apartment and close the door softly behind me.

To my left, the elevator dings, the sound echoing off the marble floor. I freeze like a deer caught in the headlights as the doors slide open.

Roman steps out, his head turned away from me as he murmurs to Bryce and the other security guard, clearly checking that the children are down for the night. They hold out the tablet that shows the security feed from inside the apartment.

Not that I’m paying any attention. I can’t look away from Roman’s bared torso, rising like a wall of muscle above a pair of gray sweatpants.

He’s clearly just come from the basement gym.

Correction: from the shower in the basement gym.

Water trails rivulets down the scarred, tattooed breadth of his back, disappearing beneath the band of his sweats. The muscles on his shoulders and the backs of his arms are raised and corded, the skin slightly flushed from what must have been a vigorous workout.

And by the way the sweats are clinging to the taut lines of his ass, he’s butt naked under the sweats.

Desire hits me between the legs with the force of a freight train.

Oh, God. I’m suddenly extremely aware of how naked I am beneath my robe. I need to get back inside my apartment.

Pressing the door code means audible beeps. On the other hand, if I stay where I am, it’s only a matter of time until Roman turns around and sees me.

Roman spins around at the first electronic bleep.

The steel eyes narrow, then darken dangerously. Flicker to where the guards are still looking at the tablet.

His head inclines briefly to the elevator, a silent order I have no thought of refusing. He’s holding the doors open with one massive arm, his body blocking mine from view of the guards.

When the doors slide closed, I’m standing with my back to the side wall, holding the pot of caramel protectively in front of me, the monitor balanced on top.

Roman watches me from the opposite side of the elevator, silent and deadly. From the front, his body is even more devastating.

The cords in his neck are raised from his workout, the veins in his shoulders and biceps visible under skin the same warm gold as rich olive oil. Every muscle is clearly delineated, his abdomen a ripped landscape still glistening with water. The sweatpants hang low on his hips. I watch, mesmerized, as a lone rivulet tracks down the narrow V that leads into the waistband.

The bulge just below the waistband is huge and unmistakable.

I draw a shuddering breath.

“Trouble sleeping, Miss Lopez?” One hand reaches out and plucks the pot from my hands. He frowns at the monitor atop it, but makes no comment, though he does turn it off. The elevator slows, but he doesn’t move. “Perhaps I should have added a clause into our contract regarding dress code.”

With one swift tug, he undoes the sash of my robe and lays my naked body bare.

He inhales sharply, his massive shaft visibly twitching beneath his sweats.

“Nobody,” he says roughly, “sees you like this but me. Do you understand?”

I nod mutely. Even the slightest movement is unbearably erotic. The touch of the air on my body, the friction between my thighs when I shift. I’ve been high on memories since I left his bed last night, but none of them came close to the reality of his raw, sensual power standing half naked within touching distance.

The elevator doors slide open, but neither of us move. I’m not sure that I can.

“You started a dangerous game this afternoon, Miss Lopez.” When I raise my eyes, his face is a solid mask of control that sends shivers down my spine. “One I intend to see through.”

“Oh?” I meant it to be a challenge, but the husk of desire in my voice is obvious even to me.

“Drop the robe.” Roman’s voice is low and commanding as he tilts his head toward the corridor. I step out onto the cool marble and let the robe fall to the floor. The blunt head of his cock leaps above the waistband, swelling as I watch.

The pulse between my legs turns into an incessant pounding.

“Look at me.”

I drag my eyes back up the wall of his chest. His eyes hold mine, dark and entirely unreadable.

“Turn around.”

I do, the molten heat between my legs slicking down my inner thighs.

“Walk.”

I move down the corridor. I can feel his eyes on my ass, sense him like a predator behind me. I come into the salon, lit only by the soft pools of downlight over the bar.

“Stop.”

Roman moves past me to the long leather sofa. He stands before it, powerful thighs spread wide, the top half of his shaft now hard up against the carved musculature of his abdomen. The pot and monitor clatter to the coffee table beside me. He throws a cushion onto the marble tiles.

“On your knees.”

“ Ah .” I can’t help the slight gasp as I drop, my knees splayed wide, eyes glued to the swollen girth thrusting above the narrow band.

He reaches past me and dips his fingers into the pot, twining caramel around them. “Open your mouth.”

I part my lips and his fingers slide in, caressing the inside of my mouth with smooth, sweet dexterity. My tongue swirls around them, and I feel a dark satisfaction when he sucks in his breath, his fingers tracing the ribbed arch of my mouth. I want those fingers inside me. I want his cock in my mouth.

I squirm in frustration, my eyes barely inches from the swollen head I’m longing to taste.

“Eyes on me.”

Reluctantly I raise my eyes. His are midnight black, narrow and focused as his fingers slide in and out of my mouth. His cock rears out of the sweats as if my mouth is already on it. His fingers probe my mouth more deeply, and I open wide to take them.

“Take them off.” The harsh rasp in his voice betrays his own desire, sending liquid heat straight to my core.

He wants this as much as I do.

My knees splay even wider, my back arching as I place my palms tentatively on his thighs, the muscles there tensing under my touch.

I pull down his sweats, and he kicks them away. His cock surges free, slapping up against his abdomen. I saw it the other night, felt him inside me. But this close I can see the ridged vein running down it, the perfection of the blunt, broad head, the almost impossibly wide girth.

He’s fucking huge.

I groan softly around his fingers. His shaft twitches, a bead of moisture gathering at the head. I lap at the calloused digits in my mouth, my hips thrusting slowly in a desperate bid to stimulate myself. I’m wet and open, hungry for his fingers, his mouth, his cock.

He traces my lower lip with his thumb, his eyes boring into mine as his fingers stroke my mouth as if they’re inside my pussy. “Your lips are made to be fucked, Miss Lopez.”

My body jerks convulsively, moisture trickling down my thighs.

His fingers leave my mouth and slide across my face into my hair. “Keep your eyes on me,” he rasps. Taking his cock in his other hand, he slowly feeds it to me, inch by throbbing inch.

He smells of the citrus soap he uses, sharp and fresh, undercut by the rich, oaky scent that seems to emanate from his being. I flatten my tongue as his dick stretches my lips wide, slowly but surely filling my mouth. The blunt head touches the back of my throat, and he pauses until I relax, then feeds me even more.

His large hands tangle in my hair, guiding the slant of my mouth, his eyes locked on mine. I draw my tongue up the vein on the underside and he grits his teeth, his fingers tightening in my hair, but still he doesn’t break eye contact or stop the slow, steady movement of his hands on my head. I swirl my tongue around the swollen tip and his cock jerks, his thumbs tracing my jawline with exquisite delicacy.

I let him guide me where he wants me, loving the sudden surge of his shaft when the ridge under the head of his cock rubs over the edge of my soft palate. There’s no way I can take all of him, and I reach out with one hand to grasp the base, but he captures it and holds it away.

“Mouth only,” he growls.

I’m writhing on the cushion, desperate for his touch. I push my hips backward rhythmically as I suck him. I’m edging toward an orgasm of my own as I increase the movement of my tongue and hollow my cheeks, working on instinct. His hips jerk beneath me, but he’s still holding on, his eyes boring into mine.

“Stop moving. You’re not coming until I say so.”

I groan around his shaft, and it jerks savagely under the vibration. My body is throbbing with the need to be filled. It’s torture to hold still when all I want is him inside me. My mouth doubles down out of frustration, and I hear the hiss of his inward breath.

His thrusts become fiercer, fucking my mouth until my eyes are watering and I’m gasping for breath. He swells to an impossible size, pounding until he’s right on the edge. I’m moving with him, aching for his own release as much as my own.

Then suddenly he pulls out of my mouth and steps away from me, his eyes dark pits of molten heat, every muscle corded with the effort of restraint.

I gasp at the loss. My knees are splayed on the cushion, my pussy dripping and my lips still coated with saliva. I stare up at the wall of muscle and the hot, hard shaft pounding against it, helpless to disguise my naked need.

“ Vedma .” He says the word once, hoarsely, staring at my lips. “That mouth...”

He bends down suddenly, slipping his hands under my ass, lifting me with no discernible effort at all. My legs wrap around his waist, and his cock pounds against my slick heat.

“Oh!” My head goes back with the delicious shock of it, and I grind helplessly against him.

“I told you not to move.” But not even the harsh growl can disguise the way his dick leaps against me, pressing directly on my clit as he walks me down the corridor toward his bedroom. His large hands spread my ass cheeks as he walks, his thumbs slicking through the moisture at the creases of my thighs, probing my dripping opening. He grunts sexily as he kicks the door open. “I need this pussy.”

“ Yes .”

His mouth captures the word as I breathe it, devouring my own. His tongue finds mine, and I’m lost in the heat of his kiss, the delicious friction of my breasts crushed against him. The base of his cock is right under my clit, driving me closer to orgasm with every step he takes, his hands under my ass grinding me against him despite his own orders.

He lowers me onto the bed without breaking the kiss, folding my legs high around him as he goes. His fingers slip inside me on a liberal coating of my own juices, and he groans. I buck against his hand in protest, trying to reach for his dick. Fingers aren’t enough. I was ready for him before I ever took that robe off.

I put my mouth against his ear, any last shred of self-control long gone. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Tell me, vedma. ” His voice is raw with the last of his own control. “Tell me what you thought about.”

“Your cock in my mouth.” His thick shaft jerks against my ass. “Sucking you.” My tongue swipes the shell of his ear. “I need you inside me,” I whisper.

“Fuck, Lucia.”

He pulls back, eyes midnight black, then fills me in one savage thrust.

“Ahhhh!” My scream hits the ceiling.

I clutch his ass, trying to draw him in harder, faster, deeper. He grunts in response, driving us both onwards.

“So fucking tight.” He angles me to the perfect position and drives home, his dick hitting every nerve ending inside me. “So goddamn hot.”

The intensity of my coming orgasm is an exquisite torture at the base of my spine, almost unbearable in the moments before it hits. He thrusts so far inside me that I gasp, then stops, his head rearing back so he can look at me. My legs are folded so high his pelvis is laid against every swollen fold. He rocks slowly, each small movement bringing me right to the edge, but not over.

“Give me your mouth, Lucia.”

He takes it with unbearable sweetness, barely moving, holding us both in the unbearable moment before release as his tongue fucks my mouth with mind-blowing skill.

His lips leave mine, and I gasp. His large hands raise my ass impossibly high, and he stares down at me.

“Come for me, milaia .”

He lifts his hips then plunges home, and my world fucking explodes.

I t’s almost dawn when I wake. Roman is sprawled across me, owning my body even in sleep. I ease myself out from his sleeping bulk and stand by the bed, staring down at his body like a criminal intruder. I feel like I want to imprint him on my mind, commit him to memory against the inevitable moment this thing between us ends. I’ve been running too long not to know how cold the nights feel when I am frightened and alone. I want to remember every mark, every scar, burn them into my mind so that when those nights come again, I can recreate him, hold his memory close for comfort.

The gray predawn does nothing to lessen the hard marks that scar his body. I stand by the bed, mentally committing every one to memory. The sheet covers only his ass, the rest of his powerful body splayed like a canvas before me. There is barely any part of him that doesn’t show evidence of the life he’s lived, the wars he’s fought. From the puckered white scars left by bullet and knife to the ink, both old and more recent, Roman’s body tells a story of violence and hardship that goes back much further than the years I can trace him as part of the Stevanovsky bratva. One tattoo, under the broad pad of his heel, catches my eye. It’s a series of numbers, so tiny they’re barely discernible and so faded they look to have been there since childhood. But there is something about the precision with which they are drawn that gives them an air of significance. I wonder what the numbers mean to Roman, what person or place they commemorate. I shiver when I think of how young he must have been when he had that work done, what kind of life he was leading. It’s a reminder that while I may know Roman’s body, I know less than nothing about the man himself.

Part of me wants to crawl back into the bed and curl into him. Try to know the man he is now, even if I can’t ever meet the one he keeps hidden.

But I learned my lesson the first night. I’m not going to wait for him to order me gone. No matter how intense the sex, nor how seductive it would be to turn into his embrace and remain there until he wakes, I have to remember what my place is here.

Forgetting is a dangerous temptation. One that I’m increasingly afraid will break me, if I let it.