Page 135 of Mile High Ruin

“You’re going to make me come again.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I can.”

He bites lightly at my shoulder. “You can.”

I hate his confidence.

I hate that he’s right.

The third orgasm tears through me so hard that my arms give out, and Vadim has to hold me upright while my pussy contracts around his cock. He groans against my neck and follows seconds later.

Afterward, we collapse into the sheets. I lie there breathing heavily while he rests beside me, one hand moving lazily over my hip.

Surely now he’s finished.

I should know better.

Twenty minutes later, I wake from something close to a doze because his mouth is on my breast. I look down to find Vadim’s silver head against my chest. His tongue moves over my nipple.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

He looks up. “No.”

“You were shot yesterday.”

“Stop using that as an excuse.”

“An excuse for what?”

“For denying me.”

I laugh. Then his hand slides between my thighs, and the laugh disappears.

He kisses me until I’m wet again, takes his time with his fingers and mouth until I stop protesting, and when he finally pushes inside me for the third time, the pace is slower than before. Almost indulgent.

We stay tangled together beneath the sheets, my breasts pressed against his chest while his hands move constantly over my body, as though even after hours of touching me he still hasn’t had enough. By the time we come together again, I’m exhausted enough that I barely manage to lift my head.

I look at him through half-closed eyes. “You are completely insane.”

His hand settles possessively over my hip. “Sleep.”

This time, I don’t argue.

22

VADIM

I wake before Sloane does, and for several minutes I remain exactly where I am because moving would require acknowledging what I did last night.

She’s asleep on her stomach beside me, one arm folded beneath the pillow and the sheet tangled low around her hips. Her hair is everywhere, dark against the white linen, and the room still carries the evidence of the night in a way that makes pretending it was a lapse in judgment impossible.

Clothes are scattered across the floor. One pillow is near the foot of the bed. The sheets look as though someone tried to fight their way out of them. I know exactly how that happened.

Sloane shifts in her sleep and turns her face slightly toward me, but she doesn’t wake.

I should feel satisfied. Instead, guilt settles in almost immediately.