Page 58 of Savage Lies

“What makes you think that?”

“It was like they planned this interrogation to poke around for weaknesses.”

Perceptive as always. “What do you think they were after?”

“Information about who I am and whether you’re hiding something about me. They think you’re being manipulated by a woman whose past you don’t understand.”

The elevator opens, and we walk toward the car. Adrenaline still hums in both of us.

“Did you enjoy tonight?” I ask as we drive through the city.

“More than I should have. Those men are dangerous, but I wasn’t afraid of them.”

“Should you have been?”

“Normal people would be.” She turns to look at me, and something hungry moves across her face. “But I’m starting to think I was never normal.”

“What do you think you were?”

“Something that fits better in your world than in art galleries.”

When we reach the penthouse, the tension that’s been building all evening reaches a breaking point. Every time another man looked at her tonight, and every moment I had to watch them evaluate what’s mine, has wound me tighter than a spring. She's been turning me on all evening with her confidence, her danger, and the way she commanded respect from men who respect no one.

The moment the door closes behind us, Katya pushes me against it with surprising strength.

“I need you,” she breathes against my throat. Then she freezes, eyes flicking with panic. “God, this is wrong. I don’t even know who I am, and still I—” Her voice breaks, but her body presses closer anyway. “Fuck, I can’t stop. I want you. Right here. Right now.”

I catch her wrists and pin them above her head against the door. She squirms, not in fear but in conflict, and I feel the tension between her words and her body.

“Tell me what you want, then.”

“Your hands. Your mouth. All over me until I forget my name.”

I capture her lips in a kiss that’s more claiming than caressing, and she responds with a moan. When I release her wrists, she goes straight to my shirt and yanks it open hard enough to send buttons scattering across the marble floor.

“Impatient,” I murmur against her lips.

“Desperate,” she fires back, shoving at my jacket until it hits the floor.

I spin her so her back hits the door again and work the zipper of her dress. Midnight-blue silk pools at her feet. She falters for a moment, crossing her arms in front of her as if to hide herself, then she lifts her chin in defiance and kicks the fabric aside. Black lace clings to her curves like it was made for my hands.

“You wore this for me.”

“I wore it because you picked it out.”

“And the lingerie?”

“That, I picked out.” She plants one hand on her hip, the other out in a silent dare. “Do you like it?”

The question is unnecessary. My stare says enough.

“Turn around.”

She obeys, placing her palms flat against the door, and I devour her body from behind.

I map her spine with my mouth to the small of her back. When I reach her ass, I slap, not soft.

“Dmitri,” she gasps as I move to unclasp her bra and let it fall.