Page 43 of Shadow Waltz
He kissed his way back up to my mouth, slower now, tasting me like something rare and precious. I bit his lip, not quite drawing blood, and he gasped, hips jerking forward. My world narrowed to the heat between us, the taste of his skin, the pulse beating wild and fast at his throat.
I reached up and tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling his head back, exposing his neck. He shivered, a flash of submission passing through him, and I pressed my lips to his pulse, tongue flicking against the racing beat. I left a bruise there, a mark he’d have to explain to someone later. That pleased me more than I cared to admit.
He tried to regain control, hands tightening at my waist, but I pushed him back with my hips, trapping him between my body and the edge of the table. “You want to own me,” I whispered against his ear, “but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.”
His breath hitched, need and frustration tangled together. “Show me,” he begged, voice breaking.
I didn’t give in, not all the way. I ran my hands down his chest, pausing just above his belt, teasing the line between permission and denial. I let him feel the heat, the promise of more, but I never let him close enough to take it.
His mouth found mine again, desperate, and for a moment I let myself be swept away by the raw want in his touch—the fantasy of forgetting, of being something other than a commodity, a pawn, a tool in someone else’s war. But it was only a fantasy. I could never give him what he wanted. No one could.
I pulled away, just enough to look him in the eye, my voice low and vicious. “You’re not the first man to want to own me. You won’t be the last. But you’ll remember me. I promise you that.”
He grinned, sweat beading at his temples, desire making him reckless. “You’re unforgettable.”
I leaned back, letting my shirt gape open over my chest, and let him look. I was the performance.
I held Mehta’s gaze, the edges of my mouth curled in a predatory smile. “If you want a memory, you’ll have to earn it.”
His eyes flickered—eagerness, confusion, maybe even a hint of fear. His tongue darted over his lower lip. “Show me.”
I moved in slow motion, never breaking eye contact. One hand trailed over my own chest, sliding down to my waist. I pulled his hand away from my skin and set it, palm up, against the table.
“Stand up,” I said, letting command fill my voice.
Rajesh obeyed—flushed, eager, the dark brown of his skin glowing with sweat under the lights. He wasn’t carved out of marble like the men Luka collected for his security team. His belly was soft, his chest heavy, his shoulders powerful but padded with a lifetime of indulgence. Silver hair gleamed at his temples and trailed into his beard, perfectly manicured. He wore his age like armor, but now, unsteady under my scrutiny, it became something I could unmake.
He stood before me, unsure for the first time. “What now?”
I let my gaze sweep him from head to toe. “Shirt,” I said, and he swallowed, nodding. His fingers went to his buttons, awkward, trembling with anticipation. The fabric parted slowly, one button at a time. Each new patch of skin revealed something secret—hair on his chest, dark and curling, a gold chain glinting against his breastbone. I let my eyes linger on his paunch, on the way his nipples peaked under the brush of his own hand.
He shrugged the shirt off, letting it slide to the floor. His stomach was round, with the softness that came from too many nights spent over fine meals and expensive liquor. His skin was deep brown, smooth in some places and mapped with old scars in others—stories I’d never hear.
I walked a slow circle around Rajesh, fingertips ghosting over his skin, stopping just at the edge of his waistband. “Not what you expected, is it?” he tried, voice wavering between pride and self-consciousness.
“Not what you expected either,” I shot back, letting my fingernail drag along the gold chain, then lower, just above his navel. I heard his breath catch, watched his belly quiver.
“Pants,” I said quietly.
Rajesh’s hands shook as he undid his belt, the metal clinking. He slid his slacks down his thighs, letting them pool at his ankles. The boxers he wore were dark blue, hugging the roundness of his belly and the thick press of his cock beneath the cotton. No pretense, no abs, no shame. He stood in his underwear, powerful but exposed, chest heaving, sweat shining at his temples.
He looked at me as if waiting for permission to move, a strange mixture of king and supplicant. “Is this what you want?” he asked, voice husky.
I ran my hands over his shoulders, squeezing hard, then softer, mapping the curve of his upper arms. “No. But it’s what you want. And tonight, I’ll let you want.”
He moaned and swayed toward me. I caught him, steadying him with hands at his waist, not letting him grind against me. My shirt hung open, skin prickling in the cold air, and I pressed my chest against his, letting him feel the heat of my skin, the wildness of my heart.
I guided him back toward the table, made him sit, legs splayed, chest heaving. I stood above him, fingers toying with the open line of my own shirt. “No touching unless I say.”
He nodded, breathless, pupils blown wide. I saw the hunger in him—the way his eyes drank in every inch of my exposed skin, the way his chest rose and fell like a man drowning.
I let him watch as I slid a finger down my own sternum, trailing lower but never too low. I saw the way his gaze followed, desperate and hungry, his hands gripping the table’s edge.
My voice was a whisper, meant for him but also for the man behind the glass. “You’re not the only one who wants to see what I can do.”
Rajesh’s hips jerked, the evidence of his arousal plain in his boxers. “Please,” he whispered.
I smiled. I climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, feeling the heat of his body, the solidity of his desire. I rocked against him, slow, deliberate, never letting him take control.