Carina doesn’t glance around Cillian’s office. She watches me flip the interior lock, ensuring no one else can enter, even if they know the code, and then she rises up onto her tiptoes to kiss me again. Her hands tug at the hem of my shirt, then slip under it, her hum vibrating against my mouth as her hands skate over my abs and the scar across my ribs.
I want this. I want it so badly that it feels like my skin is shrinking, struggling to keep my expanding desperation contained. But I’m not convinced Carina truly wants this. That she isn’t searching for some way to exorcise the demons that I’m partially responsible for. I want her to forget, but I need to know she’ll learn to live with it, not let the guilt eat her alive.
I take one step away from her. We’re still touching, but no longer kissing. “Promise me something.”
She sighs, the sound exasperated. “I prefer you not talking.”
There’s a familiar twist in the center of my chest as she parrots my words back to me. A reminder that all the single, supposedly meaningless nights we spent together total up to a significant amount of history.
“I’m serious, Carina.”
“So am I,” she says, but waits expectantly.
“What happened earlier?—”
“Me killing someone, you mean?” Her tone is flippant, but I see the spasm of guilt as she says the words.
“Yes. There was nothing different you could have done. If you hadn’t killed him, I would have. They were part of Seamus’s crew, dealing in all sorts of different forgeries. As soon as they saw he was dead, they wanted revenge. They never would have let me walk out of there. Let it go. Look ahead. Promise me.”
She exhales shakily. Her hands are still pressed against my stomach, but they don’t move. More like she wants the stability. “I feel guilty … about not feeling as guilty as I thought I would. Does that make any sense? He’s dead, and we’re alive, and I’m … okay with that.” She swallows hard, her nails digging in and scraping my skin. “I’m actually a little proud of myself. It wasn’t an accident. I meant to kill him, and I did. If I’m ever in that situation again, I’ll know I can do it. I’m capable of more than I realized. That’s not a terrible feeling.”
“Ty sposoben na vso.”
Her head tilts. I didn’t even realize I’d spoken in Russian instead of English, but it’s for the best, considering what I said. She is capable of anything, but she needs to learn that herself.
“Another compliment about my outfit? These jeans aren’t even the right size.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wear.”
“Guys always say that. But when—what are you doing?”
I set her gun on one of the chairs facing Cillian’s desk. It’s an exact replica of the president of Ireland’s—the sort of posturingshit he loves. There’s something unexpectedly sexy about having to disarm her before removing the rest of her clothes. I yank her shirt off next, tossing it on top of the firearm before unsnapping her bra and turning her toward the desk.
“Bend over.”
She listens immediately. Her breathing is rapid as she raises her head, watching me circle Cillian’s desk and rifle through his drawers. I’m certain he’ll have a—forgetone; he’s got an entire box of condoms stashed in here.
“You don’t bring your own onworktrips?” Carina asks, watching me rip open the wrapper.
“Only to Chicago.”
She likes that answer. Pink washes across her cheeks before she lowers her head again, waiting for me to fuck her. The rush of lust is dizzying.
“What do you want?” I ask, approaching her.
“Your cock,” she answers instantly.
“Where?” I demand.
“M-my pussy.”
Carina loves when I talk dirty to her, but she infrequently asks for anything in bed. I know what she likes most, but this time—our last time—I want to hear her say it aloud.
“Tell me how.”
“Hard. Make me feel it. I want to feel it, Lev.” Her voice holds a tinge of anguish.
I take that to mean I’m not the only one thinking about how this is different from all the other times I’ve been inside of her.
