I nearly jump when his chilled hand lands on my leg. He wasn’t taking another sip; he was setting his glass down.
The silky fabric offers no resistance as his palm slides beneath it. Neither do I. My legs part eagerly, the steady pulse becoming intolerable as his hand moves higher up my thigh. He has to peel the wet lace away; I’m so soaked that it’s stuck to my skin.
“Are you disappointed?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
Another laugh, and then he slips one finger inside of me. I grab at the arms of the fancy chair, arching my hips and allowing him easier access.
“Who did you think about when those boys touched you?”
The honest answer causes another wave of heat to wash over me.
Lev was the first guy to make me come. According to him, he’ll also be the last.
His hand slides lower, smearing a wet line down the inside of my thigh. I grab his wrist. Dig my nails into the firm skin, feeling the ropes of muscle that line his forearm.
“Tell me if you want to come.”
My inner muscles spasm, and my heart sinks as the depravity of his erotic torture registers.
Goading him earlier had a cost—one I’ll pay for with my dignity. With the admission of how weak I am when it comes to him, the person who’s taught me to be strong. I can swim, thanks to him. But in my dreams, I never attempt to. I stay by his side, even when it’s a perilous place to be. I tried to move on, over and over again, and I always failed. I compared his crooked smirk to others’ smiles, and I pretended others’ touches were his.
I’m not proud of it, and I can’t lie about it.
“I can do it myself,” I hiss to Lev, releasing his wrist and replacing his hand with my own.
The theater is awash in shadows, and the music is loud, but I’m still touching myself in public. Something Carina Carson would never have dared to do, but something that Carina Sokolov is quite enjoying. My fingers don’t feel as good as his did, but I’m aroused enough that it won’t keep me from coming.
Until I’m pulled out of my chair and land on Lev’s lap. My hands brace against his chest as I re-center myself. I can feel the heat of his body emanating through the fabric and the stiff section of his shirt where blood dried. I’m concerned about hisinjury for half of a second, but it fades when he pins both my arms behind my back as effortlessly as he has during our training sessions. It’s not terrific for my ego—that he overpowers me so easily, even while seriously injured. But it’s incendiary for my libido, which has a primal appreciation for the fact that this strong, powerful man is mine.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I quickly glance left, then right, to ensure that I’m still behind the divider between boxes. Not that anyone will intervene.
His white teeth flash as he smiles. “Who did you think about?”
He’s hard. I can feel the ridge of his erection right between my legs. I try to adjust, to move away, and all it does is stimulate more delicious friction. I’m soaking his pants.
“Who did you think about?” I snap.
I’ve been so careful not to get my hopes too high, about us and about what the future might look like, and it suddenly feels like I tipped my entire hand in one night.
“You.” Lev says it very matter-of-factly, like it’s a truth I should have already known. No hesitation or qualifiers.
I go still, most of the annoyance draining from my body.
“I ordered six weeks of surveillance and flew five thousand miles to fuck you once, Carina. You think I don’t pretend it’s your tight cunt every time I come?”
“I …” There’s no blood in my brain. It’s all pooling lower. “I think about you too.”
“When?”
“Always.” Too honest, but I’m too drugged on desire to care.
He’s my favorite fantasy.
His smile is triumphant as his hand slides back up my thigh. I feel feverish, certain I’ll come the second his fingers reach their destination.
It’s impossible to feel like I lost when he’s touching me.
