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Nick’s hand slides up my leg, between my legs, and inside my underwear. All I can hear are my rapid breaths and the wild thrum of my heart as it beats.
I can’t swallow the moan before it escapes, spilling out into the silent office, bathed in shadows.
Nick says something in Russian. I can’t understand a word of it. But it sounds low and dark and dirty.
It should be a reminder of what a mistake I’m making.
How different we are.
How weak I am right now. My legs wantonly spread on his desk, like he didn’t break my heart by leaving years ago and return, only to uproot my entire life in a matter of minutes.
The callouses on his palm as he fingers me are another reminder. I should be horrified by their roughness. Should be picturing pink-hued water circling the drain and thinking about all the damage they’ve done.
But I can’t focus on anything Ishouldbe doing.
My reflexes and my instincts—my morals—are stripped away, defenseless against the sensations building inside of me. The pleasure is so intense, I can’t feel anything else. Can’t see or think past it. It’s a powerful rush—aburnthat eats away at everything else—searing through my veins and confiscating my thoughts.
It was always like this with Nick, and I purposefully forgot this feeling.
I hate addiction.
My whole life, I’ve battled any instinct that suggested I might be similar to my mother in any way, shape, or form. We look alike. There was a reason she was able to coax man after man into her destructive web. But everything else—everything important—I thought I’d disinherited.
I’ve never sampled a drug in my life. But I’m worried this is my addiction. Thatheis my addiction.
I was proud of myself for walking away last night, even though I felt guilty about my choice of parting words. But here we are again, and nothing in my body says this will end the same way.
Nick murmurs more Russian.
I tilt my head back, drunk on desire. We feel suspended in time. Unworried about consequences.
“What did you say?”
“I said, your pussy is awfully wet for someone so disgusted by me.”
He rubs my clit, and that’s all it takes. A peak that usually takes me a while to reach is here in seconds. I tumble, spiral, and fall.
It’s been a while. But…it’s him. Based on the smirk Nick is wearing, he knows it too.
I’m not disgusted by him. I wish I were.
I can see everything in black and white. But Ifeelthe gray when I’m around him. Right and wrong are two extremes with a lot of space in between. Are they subjective instead of set in stone? If you kill a killer, are you saving lives in addition to ending one?
Maybe my childhood screwed me up even more than I thought.
Maybe love is a verb, an ongoing action that overtakes obstacles.
I don’t want to love Nick. But I’m worried I never stopped.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I wait for the second-guessing. But all I’m experiencing is anticipation. “Yes.”
Certain moments matter more than others.
I’m worried this one means the most.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
