Page 102 of Mile High Ruin

He says nothing. That’s answer enough.

Something inside me twists. I look at him, at the man who held me after Hale, who carried me to bed, who told me about his childhood, who kissed me like I was the only thing in the room worth touching.

And now he’s looking at me as though I may have been lying the entire time.

“You don’t know me at all.”

His expression flickers. For the first time since he walked out of the bedroom, something almost like guilt appears. Then it’s gone.

“I know enough to ask questions,” he says.

“Then keep asking them somewhere else.”

He watches me. I can see the battle in him—the desire, the suspicion, and the fury at both. His hand flexes once at his side, like he wants to touch me again.

He doesn’t. Instead, he turns and walks back into the suite. Still hard and naked. Leaving me standing against the balcony wall with my robe half-open and my entire body aching for the man who just accused me of trying to have him killed.

I stay there after he disappears.

My breathing is uneven.

My lips hurt from his mouth.

My nipples are still hard.

And between my thighs, my pussy pulses with a humiliating need that has no business surviving what just happened.

I close my eyes. This is fucked up.

And the worst part is that some broken, reckless part of me still wants him to come back.

16

VADIM

I don’t go back to her.

That’s the first decision I make after leaving Sloane on the balcony, and it’s probably the only sensible one I’ve made since I first met her.

I take the adjoining bedroom instead, shut the door behind me, and stand there for several seconds with my hands braced against the edge of the dresser while I try to force my body to understand something my mind already knows.

Sloan may have been used to track me. There was a device sewn into the lining of her bag, the same bag she brought aboard my aircraft, the same bag that sat unsecured beside the galley when I first met her, and the same bag that remained with us all the way to Bucharest.

Someone knew exactly where we would land despite precautions designed specifically to prevent that.

Sloane may be innocent. She may not be.

Until I know which, I should not touch her again.

The problem is that my cock apparently has no interest in operational security. I’m still hard enough that the pressure has become painful.

I sit on the edge of the bed and immediately regret it because my mind supplies the image of Sloane on the other side of the suite, wrapped in that hotel robe, her mouth swollen from mine and her body still flushed from everything we almost did.

I close my eyes. That makes it worse.

I see her naked beneath me again. Her breasts in my hands. Her thighs open around my shoulders. The way she came against my mouth, completely unable to hide what I was doing to her.

My cock throbs. “Fuck.”