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I look like I’m coming home from an orgy.
In desperation, I look away, catching Peter’s gaze again. “So you never told me… Why did it take you so long to return for me?”
His jaw flexes. “Because that favor I did for Esguerra—it took a long time. I wanted to come for you sooner, ptichka, believe me.” He gives me an arrested stare. “Did you miss me? Were you hoping I’d come?”
I swallow and look away as the elevator doors open, sparing me from having to reply. I thought I’d reconciled my contradictory feelings for Peter, had come to terms with the fact that my husband’s killer managed to steal my heart, but all of a sudden, I’m not so sure. This—Peter here, in my regular life—is too unexpected, too terrifyingly real. I can’t wrap my mind around the logistics of it, the sheer number of complications involved in attempting a normal relationship—a marriage—with a former assassin who once tortured and kidnapped me. If this is really happening, what am I going to tell my parents who still think of him as “that criminal?” Or Marsha, who knows not only the official FBI story that paints Peter as a monster, but also that he killed George? And will the FBI really leave us alone? How can they, when the man standing in the elevator with me has to be one of the most dangerous people they know?
Whenever I imagined us together, it was elsewhere, with me as his now-willing prisoner. I was ready to accept my fate as his captive, to embrace my tormentor as my destiny, but I wasn’t ready for this.
The ring is cold and heavy on my finger as we step out of the elevator and Peter leads me down the hallway to my apartment. He’s never been to my building before—at least, I assume he hasn’t—yet there’s no trace of hesitation in his movements, no sense that he’s lost or uncertain in any way. He’s as confident in navigating an unfamiliar hallway as he is in everything he does, and I can’t help envying that.
I myself feel hopelessly adrift, like a rudderless ship in a storm.
We reach my door, and I fumble for the apartment keys in my purse, acutely aware of Peter’s gaze on me. He doesn’t look impatient, but I sense it in him, feel the violent need he’s holding in check. My breathing grows shallow, my palms dampening as I finally close my hand around the elusive object.
“Here, let me.” He takes the keys from me and unerringly finds the right one, opening the door on the first try.
We step in, and he closes the door behind us as I flip on the living room lights. I hear the click of the lock, and I turn to face him, heart hammering. “Peter…”
He’s on me before I can utter another word. His big hands frame my face as he backs me up against the couch, his mouth slanting greedily across mine as we fall onto the soft cushions in a tangle of limbs and unrestrained need.
Whatever doubts I might’ve had are swept away, drowned by a wave of lust so intense it feels like fire in my veins. The orgasm in the parking lot just whetted my appetite, leaving my sex sensitized and swollen, desperately aching for more. My nipples are agonizingly tight, and I literally throb between my legs as he rips off my shirt and moves to undo my zipper, his hands rough with urgency, with the same hunger that’s tormented me for months.
I meet him kiss for kiss, my hands ripping at his shirt as he yanks the jeans off me, growling in frustration as they get caught on my ballerina flats. I manage to kick them off my feet along with the bunched-up jeans as he unsnaps my bra, and then I’m naked, sprawled on the couch underneath him as he reaches for his zipper.
There are no pretty words, no sweet caresses—just the primal feel of him as he ruthlessly pushes into me, face taut with lust and eyes glittering darkly as he catches my wrists and pins them above my head. I suck in a breath at the relentless invasion, my inner muscles quivering, struggling to adjust to the impossible thickness of him, to the way my flesh stretches to accept him. My body has somehow forgotten this part, and it feels like our first time all over again, only the shame and guilt are now just dim shadows in my mind.
I need this—I need him—and I can’t deny it.
When he bottoms out inside me, he stops, giving me a moment to get used to him, and I see him fighting for control, reining in that savage part of him so he won’t hurt me.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, squeezing my pelvic muscles around his thick length. “It’s okay, Peter… I can take it.”
