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Kira had been there for him, standing by his side. Maybe it had been for show. Maybe it had been a display of support for the shared interests of their business arrangement.
There was no way to know, but he’d been relieved. Relieved to have someone on his side, even if that someone had her own motives. It had been that way tonight too. He’d been lulled by the comfort of domesticity, a home-cooked meal, a beautiful woman who seemed to want to please him.
Except he couldn’t afford to seek comfort. Couldn’t afford to be swayed by it.
And he definitely couldn’t afford to be swayed by a woman, especially Kira Baranov.
He left the rinsed dishes in the sink and dried his hands. The dining and living rooms were empty, the terrace doors open just a crack. Through the glass, the lights in the pool shone turquoise.
He stepped outside and was hit by a flash of cold air, but when he closed the door behind him and started across the terrace, the temperature rose, and he realized a fire was burning in the outdoor fireplace, and several of the patio heaters had been turned on.
She was a woman who thought of everything. He liked that about her, although he would never give her the satisfaction of saying so.
He found her standing at the railing, the city lights shining like a blanket of shimmering jewels in the darkness.
She handed him a glass filled with honey-colored liquid.
“How do you know I like bourbon?” he asked. Their people drank vodka like water, and so Lyon drank it too, when he was in their company.
But he preferred bourbon. It was the drink that made him think of home, that made him feel like himself, the person he really was, not the one bound by the rules and conventions of the bratva.
She smiled. “I like to think I’m observant.”
“To being observant.” He clinked his glass with hers and noticed she was drinking bourbon as well.
She drank from her glass and watched him over the rim. Her eyes were dark in the dim light, a primordial pool he wished he could swim through. He had the feeling that he could dive and dive and never reach the bottom.
His cock stirred in his pants, and this time he didn’t push away the desire that flooded his body.
He couldn’t.
She was right there in front of him, her lips damp with bourbon, their eyes locked.
He took the glass from her hand and set it with his on the ledge that ran the length of the railing.
She was breathing fast now. He could see it in the way her chest rose and fell, the whisper of breath exiting her parted mouth.
Lust roared through his veins, consuming him like a parched land in the path of a wildfire. He slid his hands into the hair at the back of her head. The strands slid through his fingers like silk, and he closed his fists around it, tight enough that she gasped, her eyes wide.
But her cheeks were flushed, her body leaning toward his, not away.
The mouth could lie, but the body never could. He knew this better than anyone, his cock hard and throbbing, begging to drive into her, to fuck her until she screamed, until she came hard around him, until he poured himself into her.
There was a challenge in her stare, and he tightened his grip on her hair and pulled her head back. She was panting, although he didn’t know whether from pleasure or pain.
Maybe both. God knew the pain of wanting her was equal to the pleasure of imagining the urge satiated.
“Are you ready to beg?” His voice was hoarse in spite of his effort not to betray his emotion.
Her eyes flashed, and her chin lifted defiantly. “No.” Her voice broke on the word.
He released her hair and stepped closer. Then closer yet.
She didn’t give an inch, and he stopped only when he was pressed hard against her soft body.
He lowered his head and breathed in her scent, then brushed his lips along her ear. “Not even for a kiss?”
“No.” Her voice was raspy, and he could feel the effort with which she held herself rigid, trying not to sink against him.
