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His gaze drops to my throat, then trails down to my collarbones and the exposed swells of my breasts, pushed up by the tight bodice of the dress. My mouth goes dry, and I swallow hard. The built-in bra is too thick to betray the erect state of my nipples, but I’m breathing fast and he can see that. He can tell how agitated I am, how helplessly turned on.
I want to look away, to pretend I don’t feel the magnetic pull between us, but it’s impossible. As his eyes return to mine, I can no more turn away than sprout wings and fly. All I can do is sit there, quivering, as he slowly, deliberately, reaches over and lays his left hand on my right thigh, exactly where my skirt is slit, exposing a sliver of bare skin.
His touch jolts me. The feel of his hand on my naked thigh is like an electric shock, scorching every nerve ending with a violence that steals my breath and makes my heart feel like it’s exploding. Only the presence of other people around us keeps a startled gasp from escaping my lips. Some distant part of me is still cognizant of where we are and how wrong this is.
And it is wrong. So, so wrong. He’s my enemy, my stalker… a murderer of innocent men. I should dread his touch, be repulsed by it, yet I don’t move away as he wedges his callused thumb deeper under the soft velvet of my dress, forcing the slit to widen as he holds my gaze, his eyes full of dark hunger and wicked knowledge. I don’t jump up as he slowly, tauntingly edges his hand higher up my thigh underneath the dress. I don’t flee as his fingers brush the edge of my thong, then delve underneath the damp silk to where my bare flesh is hot and slick, pulsing with need.
I just sit there like a statue, frozen and burning, trembling with shame and arousal, as the music in the film swells and crests, the audience around us whooping and clapping at whatever is happening on the screen.
I’m high. I must still be high to let this happen. Except I know I’m not. I have a high tolerance for weed these days, and the joint I smoked is no longer clouding my mind. But I tell myself that it is, that the drug is the reason I’m sitting here, letting him touch me so intimately in a theater full of people, where anyone can look over at us at any time and see his hand on my leg, inside my skirt.
No, it has to be the pot. It’s making me do this, allow this.
His eyes burn into mine as he separates my wet folds and brushes his fingers over my aching clit. Just a light stroke, that’s all it is, yet my entire body goes taut, my lungs seizing from the power of the sensation. He rubs the same spot again, his mouth curving wickedly, and I shudder from the sharp, biting pleasure as the agonizingly sweet tension coils ever tighter in my body, building to a sensory crescendo, taking me to the edge of that dark, mind-bending ecstasy I’ve only ever known at his hands.
The same big, strong hands that are touching me now with a skill and delicacy that can’t—shouldn’t—coexist with all the cruelty they’re capable of… all the blood they’ve spilled.
The grim thought sobers me just enough to grab his wrist. It’s strong and solid, the bones thick underneath the crisp cuff of his shirt, and I’m so caught up in the sensation ofmetouchinghimthat it takes me a moment to realize he’s not stopping, that my gesture, weak as it is, is being completely ignored. Instead, the hunger in his eyes grows darker, more predatory, his face taking on a demonic visage as he moves his fingers over my clit in a firmer, more purposeful motion, utterly disregarding my attempt to pry his hand away from me. At least I think that’s what I’m attempting by tugging on his wrist. I may also be urging his hand to move faster, harder, to hurtle me over that tantalizing edge until my mind dissolves and I forget everything, including how much I should hate this.
And I hate it. I swear I do… right up until the very second when I shatter. My eyes squeeze shut, my teeth grind against each other to hold in a cry, and streaks of purple and white blast my vision as my inner muscles squeeze and release in a series of spasms that send dark ecstasy surging through my body, curling my toes inside my stilettoes and raising gooseflesh on my bare arms.
The orgasm is so strong it feels like it goes on forever. It’s not until the sensations recede that I find the strength to open my eyes and face him… my nemesis who’s just made me come.
He’s still staring at me, his hunger unabated, his fingers on my swollen, throbbing, overly sensitive flesh. Blood rushes to my face, and I suck in a breath, mortified to realize what I’ve just done… what I’ve let happen and where.
My paralysis vanishes, and I let go of his wrist to leap to my feet. Turning left, I push my way past the spectators in my row, heedless of their grumbling, all my thoughts centered on escape. I’ll apologize to Risha later, tell her I got another headache. She’ll forgive me; she always does. Besides, it’s not a lie. The intense mortification is swiftly giving rise to the familiar vise-like tension, all the blood that flooded my face transforming into hammers pounding at the inside of my skull. The stabbing needles will follow soon, blurring my vision and making me want to die, and the only hope I have of stopping this is to reach my pills in time.
My pills. My apartment. My bed.
I focus on that as I run out onto the street and flag down the nearest cab, not waiting for my bodyguards to bring over the car. There’s no time for that, not when he might be coming after me, demanding that we continue, that I give him what he’s now given me twice. That I give him everything, my mind and body, my hopes and dreams, my very soul. The way my mother gave all of herself to my father, only to find that it wasn’t enough… that a monster can’t sheathe his fangs, not even for the one he loves.
My cab is already pulling away from the curb when Alexei emerges from the building, the look on his face matching the stark black lines of the tuxedo suit hugging his powerful body. He scans the street, his dark brows furrowed, and I yell at the driver to go faster, to step on the gas before it’s too late.
It’s not until we’re several blocks away that I realize I’m crying, the tears rolling down my face and ruining my carefully applied makeup. And it’s not until I’m at my apartment, shooing Natasha out of my bed as I frantically swallow a handful of pills, that I wonder what the fuck I’m going to do now that Alexei knows I still want him.
Now that I’ve shown him just how much power he holds over me.
Chapter19
Present Day, Location Unknown
Dropping my gaze to my plate, I take a bite of my caviar sandwich and chew slowly, trying to focus on the rich, salty flavor of the salmon roe and the smooth, cool fattiness of the butter spread over the crisp French baguette. I try to focus on anything but the tense silence that stretches between us and the memories that intrude into it, memories that make my face burn and my heart race.
Like Risha’s premiere. Like what happened nine months ago.
Unable to help myself, I look up from my plate and meet Alexei’s gaze. He smiles darkly, and somehow, I know we’re on the same page… that his mind is traveling along the same pathway, reliving the same events.
“After Risha’s premiere,” I say, both to break the silence and because I genuinely want to know, “I was afraid you were going to force yourself further into my life. Or do something like this.” I gesture vaguely to indicate my current situation. “Yet you didn’t. You left me alone again. Why?”
He picks up his champagne glass and takes a sip. “Because you weren’t ready.” His tone is even, matter-of-fact, as if everyone knows a woman must meet certain criteria to be violently abducted. As if all of this is perfectly logical, rational.
“Ready for what?” I ask, matching his tone. “To be forced into your bed?”
“We both know force won’t be required.”
I flush hotter but maintain the coolness of my voice. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.”
“I don’t plan to do much sleeping tonight.”
