Page 225 of Mile High Ruin

He watches me while he touches me. Watches my mouth part, watches my lashes flutter, watches the way I struggle to stay quiet because we’re in a hospital suite and there are men outside the door who would die before admitting they hear anything. The thought should embarrass me enough to stop.

It doesn’t. It makes everything hotter.

Vadim’s mouth returns to my breast, and I nearly lose the last of my control.

He sucks my nipple while his fingers stroke between my legs, and the combination is unbearable. My body is too sensitive now, too full of hormones and heat and months of wanting him while being furious with him. Every gentle pull of his mouth sends pleasure straight down to his hand. Every slow circle of his fingers makes my hips lift helplessly, even with my belly heavy between us.

“Careful,” he murmurs against my skin, though he is the reason I’m moving at all.

“I’m trying.”

“No.” His mouth brushes my nipple as he speaks. “Let me.”

Then he shifts his hand, angling his wrist so I don’t have to move, so I don’t have to chase anything. He gives it to me.

I close my eyes. He stops.

My eyes fly open. “Vadim.”

“Look at me.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Yes.”

I would laugh if I had enough air.

His fingers move again, and the laugh turns into a broken little sound I trap behind my teeth. His mouth lowers to my breast once more, and this time when he sucks, there’s the slightest scrape of teeth, so soft it’s barely there, but my body reacts as if he has set fire to my blood.

“Oh God.”

His hand on my thigh tightens. “Quiet, moya devochka.”

The Russian slips out of him like a possession, like a secret.

I come apart.

It’s deep and rolling and almost too tender, pleasure spreading through me in waves that make my stomach tighten and my thighs shake around his hand. I clutch at his shoulder, then his hair, then the couch beneath me because I don’t know where to put all of it. Vadim keeps his mouth on my breast and his fingers between my legs, gentling me through it, slowing only when I start to tremble too hard.

When it finally passes, I slump back against the couch, breathless and stunned.

He withdraws his hand carefully and fixes my underwear first, then draws my dress back down over my thighs. Only after that does he ease my bra into place, covering my breasts with a restraint so meticulous it almost makes me blush more than being exposed did.

I stare at him.

He wipes his fingers with a handkerchief from his pocket like a man who has just handled something sacred and dangerous at once.

“You carry handkerchiefs?”

His mouth twitches. “You have complaints?”

“I have questions.”

“You always have questions.”

“You like that too.”

His eyes lift to mine. The softness vanishes slowly, not because he becomes cold, but because the moment becomes too honest.