Page 8 of Trust

It’s both more intense and less all at the same time, like something wonderful and forbidden and satisfying. It’s electrifying.

It makes me feelalive.

It should be a good thing. It should make me smile.

Instead, it makes me want to cry.

It’s not real.

None of this is real.

It’s never going to be real.

I pull back, blinking a few times to clear my vision.

I can’t do this.

I have to do this.

I lick my lips, chasing the taste of him. It should be foul; I know who he is, what he is, and that knowledge should make this unbearable.

Instead, I’m all too aware of how gently he kisses, how gently he smiles, and it’s so at odds with how Adam looks at me that I can’t quite reconcile it in my head.

So I don’t bother trying.

“I like kissing you,” I whisper instead. “Do you want to do it some more?”

“I do.” Ilya pulls me closer, until our thighs are touching. He gently strokes my jaw, rubbing his thumb over my lips. “I liked it.”

Is that true? I love kissing, but Adam only does it when he wants to butter me up, when he wants something from me—or when he’s trying to atone for things I’d rather not think about. Maybe Ilya is the same.

I have to play along, though, whether Ilya’s lying or telling the truth.

“I did too.” I feel like I can’t catch my breath.

This isn’t the plan at all.

I wasn’t supposed to try to seduce one of the foremost figures in the Russian underground in New Bristol. I don’t know anything about seduction.

But this is better than our original plan, isn’t it?

I was already shaky about convincing Ilya Zima to hire me as a drug dealer in his organization. I know the slang and the business, but nobody took me seriously even back when I was actively dealing.

Ilya never would have trusted me.

This way, I have something he wants: Me.

My body.

I simply need to convince him to keep me close.

The easiest way to do this is to let him believe he’s sweeping me off my feet.

Ilya kisses me again, more firmly this time, taking control in a way that feels familiar butgoodat the same time. His salt-and-pepper beard rubs against my skin. It’s softer than I expected, but I’m used to rough stubble, not a well-maintained beard.

Ilya doesn’t move his hand immediately to my groin, and he doesn’t pull my shirt up.

He doesn’t needle me about how boring kisses are and that there’s no point to it.