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For a few beats, we just stare at each other, and I register all sorts of panty-melting details, like the way his straight black hair is mussed from my fingers and how his sensual lips are red and swollen, glistening from our rough kisses. Mine must look the same because I can feel them, damp and throbbing, aching for more of his addictive touch and taste. He’s wearing only a pair of running shorts, and his chest and shoulders are all lean muscle, his abs sharply defined. Unlike the powerful trunks of his legs, which are sprinkled with crisp, dark hair, his torso is smooth, his lightly tanned skin marred only by a pale, puckered scar on his left shoulder.
My heart rate kicks up.
Bullet wound.
I’ve never seen one, but I’m certain I’m right. It’s either that, or a drill bit went through his shoulder.
The lingering glow of orgasm dissipates as fear born of clearer thinking filters in. Who is he, this gorgeous man who appears to be so intimately acquainted with danger?
Why is he in my bedroom, on my bed?
Slowly, I scoot away, not taking my eyes off his. The bullet wound, the bruised knuckles, the wall around the compound, and the guards… There’s a story here, and it’s not a good one. Violence, in some shape or form, appears to be part of my new employer’s life, and I want nothing to do with it, no matter how much my body longs for us to finish what we started.
What I started, by kissing him so thoughtlessly, so brazenly.
At my retreat, his tiger eyes narrow, and I feel his frustration, the simmering fury of a predator witnessing the inevitable escape of his prey. Except it’s not inevitable in our case—with his superior size and strength, he can stop me at any point, and the fact that he remains still despite the tension evident in his powerful muscles is more than a little reassuring.
He must realize what I’m thinking because his expression smooths out, his posture taking on a relaxed, almost lazy vibe. “Don’t worry, zaychik. I’m not going to pounce on you.” His voice is soft, his tone gently mocking. “If you don’t want this, just say so. I’m not in the habit of bedding the unwilling… or anyone pretending to be that.”
My face feels like someone is burning coals under my skin. He’s no doubt referring to my impromptu orgasm, something I haven’t let myself think about yet. Because as shameless as my behavior tonight has been, nothing beats dry-humping him like a bitch in heat—and coming from it.
“I’m not—” I stop, realizing I was about to launch into childish denials. “You’re right,” I say in a more level tone. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have kissed you. That was completely inappropriate and—”
“And it’s going to happen again.” His eyes are like amber jewels in the warm light cast by the lamp. “You’re going to kiss me, and we’re going to fuck, and you’re going to come again and again. You’ll come on my fingers and my tongue, and with my cock buried deep inside your tight, wet pussy. You’ll come as I fuck your throat and your ass. You’ll come so fucking much you’ll forget what it feels like not to come—and you’ll still beg for more.”
I stare at him, my throat dry and my underwear soaking wet. My clit pulses in tune with his softly spoken words, my heart hammering like a woodpecker even as my lungs struggle to draw a single breath. I’ve never had a man speak to me this way, never knew dirty talk could simultaneously turn me on and make me burn with shame.
“That’s not… I’m not…” I drag in oxygen. “It’s not happening.”
“Oh, but it is, zaychik. You know why?”
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“Because this is inevitable. From the moment I saw you, I’ve known it’s going to be like this… hot and wild and raw, completely uncontrollable. And you’ve known it too. That’s why you can barely look at me at mealtimes, why being alone with me makes you so scared.” He leans in, eyes gleaming. “You want me, Chloe… and believe me, I want you too.”
I search for something to say, but nothing comes to mind. Where thoughts should be is a big, blank gap. At the same time, my body thrums with electric awareness, each nerve ending viscerally conscious of his nearness and the dark heat in those leonine, hypnotic eyes. This is so far beyond my realm of experience that I have no playbook for this, no clue how to react, much less act. He’s my employer, the father of my student, and even if he weren’t, there’d still be that aura of danger, of violence, that he wears like a lethal halo. The only sane solution is to shut this down, deny that I want him, but I can’t bring myself to voice the obvious lie.
