Page 22

He looks at me for a long moment, and lets out a slow breath. I'm holding mine. I'm gambling that Cormac is the kind of man who is more susceptible to honesty than any tricks of seduction, and in another moment, I'm proven right.

He steps back and holds the door open without saying anything. I step into the warm interior of the house and glance around. I didn't notice much last time—I was a little tipsy, and the house was dark, but this time I notice more. It looks lived-in, with full bookshelves and a few dishes in the sink, a beer bottle sitting on the coffee table that I see in the living room. There are a few framed photos on a side table. A road atlas sitting on the coffee table, too, that makes me wonder if he's dreaming of some kind of road trip, maybe on his motorcycle.

Guilt clenches at my chest. If I play my cards right, he won't be taking any long trips. He'll be locked behind bars.

I haven't seen any facet of this man that makes me believe he deserves that. But he's in the same line of work my father is. If he doesn't deserve prison, then neither does anyone in my family.

And my duty is to them, not a man I just met and slept with once.

I stand there, taking it all in, while he closes and locks the door behind us. He turns back to me, and I bite my lip.

"You want a drink?" he asks, and I pause. My nerves are unsteady, and something to drink would be nice. The vodka soda from the club has long since worn off.

"Sure," I say. "Whatever you're having is fine."

He chuckles. "I was having beer. But I can make us both something a little nicer."

I watch, sliding off my heels as he goes over to a wooden bar cart on the far side of the living room. I hear the clink of glasses and the pour of liquid, and when he comes back, he hands me a glass with something amber in it, a dried orange slice floating on the top.

"Jameson and ginger," he says with a smile. "And a little garnish. I'm not as fancy as some of the guys I spend time around, but I can make a decent drink."

His tone and words are easy, but I can still see the tension in him. When I glance down as I take the drink, I can see that he's at least half-hard, the bulge in his jeans giving away how much he wants me. Desire ripples down my spine, and when I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip, I see his eyes darken.

"I like the idea of you tasting like whiskey when I kiss you," he murmurs. And then, just as quickly he swears, running his hand through his hair. "Fuck. I shouldn't have said that."

"Why not?"

He gives me a dark look. "You know why not, Oksana."

"Careful." I move toward him, glass in hand, taking another sip as I look at him over the rim of it. "I might start to get off on you scolding me. Might make things at home awkward."

He laughs so sharply it's almost a sputter, a shocked, sudden laugh. "Christ. Do you hear the things that come out of your mouth?"

"Sure." I'm close enough I can almost touch him now. "You liked my dirty mouth last time." I take another sip of the whiskey and then notch my finger in the collar of his T-shirt, leaning in. "Come taste your whiskey."

His pupils are blown wide. He groans, as if giving up entirely, and curls his free hand around the back of my neck, pulling me in.

When his mouth presses against mine, it's devastating. He doesn't kiss especially slowly, as if this is something tender and romantic, but he doesn't crush his mouth against mine desperately, either. He kisses with a skill that lets me know he's done this plenty of times before, and the flush of jealousy I feel is something I have to quickly put aside. His mouth moves over mine, tasting, teasing, his teeth briefly tugging at my lower lip before salving the sting with his tongue. He kisses softly, then harder, the rasp of his stubble scraping against my delicate skin and making me gasp.

I reach down, cupping him boldly through his jeans, and I feel him suck in a breath. He's rock-hard now, nearly throbbing against my palm, and he groans against my mouth as I find the ridge of his cockhead through the denim and rub my thumb against it.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and I take another drink of my whiskey before setting the glass on the nearby counter and sinking down to my knees.

"Oksana." My name is nearly a moan on my lips. "Fuck, you don't have to⁠—"

"I want to." I open his belt, running my thumb up the ridge of his cock again beneath his jeans. There's a droplet of whiskey on my lip still, and I take my time licking it off, watching the heat crawl up his throat as I tug his zipper down.

A flood of heat rushes through me as I slide his cock out, feeling it fill my palm. He's thick and stiff, pre-cum pearling at the tip, the shaft flushed. I lean in, keeping my eyes on him as I lick the droplet off his sensitive head, and he jerks, gasping at the contact.

"Fuck…" His hand slides into my hair, and he swallows hard. "Oh God. Fuck, you look so pretty like that."

The praise urges me on, and I wrap my hand around the base, sliding my lips over the tip as I tease beneath the head with my tongue. He lets out a deep, strangled noise, his hips twitching as he struggles not to shove into my mouth.

I slide off the tip with a pop, looking up at him wide-eyed. "You can fuck my face if you want," I breathe, and he groans.

"I'd hurt you. It's too thick."

"Maybe I'd like a little pain." The moment I say it, I feel his cock throb in my hand, more pre-cum sliding down the shaft, and I file that away. He's got a kinky side; I just have to figure out how to get him to let go enough to show that to me. Then I can really blow his mind, because truthfully, I'd love him to show me every depraved thing he might want to do. The only thing hotter, in my opinion, than a man with a dominant side is a man who normally stays so buttoned-up, who then lets his freak flag fly behind closed doors.