He’s so lovely. He can’t be mine. He’s a powerful mafia boss who I’ve already caused a lot of expense, inconvenience, and risk. Maxim told me Kon wouldn’t accept any money for the rescue, and that’s without the further consequences of stealing the Volk’s ballet company.
But needy little thing that it is, my heart longs for him.
More than anything or anyone since I left Moscow, Kon feels like home. Being in his arms makes me feel understood.
Loved.
“That’s better,” he croons. “That’s my good girl. My brave, sweet girl. Zhizn moya.”
He said that the night we met, and I don’t know the Russian phrase. I recognise moya, of course. It means, “my”.
His what? His responsibility? His problem? I’d rather not know. The illusion is too beautiful that maybe he’s saying something nice. That honestly, being his in any way is wonderful.
I barely look as he guides me around and lowers us into a chair, gathering me onto his lap, my knees over his thighs and my shoulder snuggled against his chest. Our breathing synchronises, deep and slow. My tears dry, and the comfort of his embrace slides like honey off a spoon into another feeling.
Closeness, yes. Awareness. My pulse hitches, and when I breathe in, I really savour it. His scent of spice and caramel brings back the memory of that night.
The wrong, taboo, dirty thing I did to him, and the filthy, brutal, tender things he did to me. The way I begged him to stop, and he growled that he couldn’t, then whispered, “Say mercy. Taylor,” reminding me of my safe word even as he used my body savagely.
Heat pools between my legs. I tilt my chin up and the scent at his neck is more intensely Kon. It lights something inside me.Then I turn my head inwards and the solid lump of his Adam’s apple and the sandpaper of his stubble scrapes my cheek.
“Taylor.” He rumbles the warning, and I feel it in my chest and under my lips. It’s pure masculinity. The coarse hair, hardness, deep vibrations.
He’s so different to me, and the women I’ve spent years with.
And I want him. The change is imperceptible at first. A swallow that makes his throat bob. A tightening of his arms around me. Then against the side of my thigh, there’s a touch. Slight, then a hard press.
His erection.
Kon wants me.
The knowledge tingles over my skin. And it’s magic, this feeling. The power, the closeness.
Could I get him to lose control?
“Kon.” I push my lips onto his neck, a desperate kiss that expresses my need to be close to him.
“Have you seen Taylor?” The voice is shrill but muffled from the corridor. “She’s not answering her phone.”
My sister.
I scramble off Kon’s lap, and he lets me.
“I have to go.” They’ll be worried, especially if they find me with Kon, a former member of Volk. They try to shield me from any reminders of my captivity, and I think they’d be horrified that Kon dragged me away. They think I’m vulnerable, and I guess they’re right, given I’ve been crying at my sister’s wedding.
“Of course.” Kon rises slowly to his feet. His voice is hoarse.
There are footsteps outside.
“Thank you,” I trail off, unable to say what I want to, and not sure it wouldn’t be silly anyway.
“You asked,” he replies softly. “It’s my privilege to provide what you need, especially when you’re so brave as to tell me with words.”
There’s a connection between us, as he looks at me. It’s a tug from my navel, and from my heart.
If things were different, I’d go to him. Hug him. Thank him properly and not in this stilted fashion. I want to be in his arms again more than anything.
Except, to get Kon into trouble with the other London mafia bosses, or let down my sisters. But the longing for Kon, and the deep comfort and rightness I felt with him is like a tide.
