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“Would you prefer to walk on your own? Because I’m not opposed to carrying you,” I growl as I glance toward my lap, where she’s still sitting. The thought of letting her go just yet is torture, but I know I must allow it if we’re going to leave without making more of a scene than we already have.
Whitney giggles and rises, allowing me to stand as well. From the stunned look on our waiter’s face where he’s frozen mere feet from our table, wine bottle in hand, I’m guessing he was on his way to serve us when Whitney kissed me. He clearly didn’t know how to handle the situation and must have gotten an eyeful of our passionate kiss. I don’t know whether to feel bad for the fella or congratulate him. He had the second best spot in the house for Whitney’s uncharacteristic public display of affection.
“Sorry,” I say, “but something’s come up.”
That elicits another giggle from Whitney, which makes me smile. God, I could get high on her laugh. From the corner of my eye, I see her slip into her knee-length winter coat, and I find myself suddenly jealous of the clothing article. But I’ll be taking it off soon enough.
Reaching into my inner jacket pocket, I withdraw my wallet and toss several hundred-dollar bills on the table. “That ought to cover our meal. Sorry for the inconvenience.” I give a brief nod before placing my hand on the small of Whitney’s back and steering her toward the door of the restaurant.
“Something’s come up?” Whitney teases under her breath as we pass the host stand and reach the elevator. She gives an unladylike snort that makes me smile harder.
“Well, it’s the truth. Want me to show you?” I joke lightly.
The look of animal hunger in her eyes as she peers up at me is like lava in my veins. It tells me that’s exactly what she wants me to do and I’m more than willing to oblige. The elevator doors open a moment later, and I follow Whitney onto it, not bothering to wait for the doors to close behind us before I’m pushing her up against the back wall, pinning her there with my hips as my knees shove her legs apart to make room for me.
Whitney releases a moan as I grind my rock-hard erection against her pelvis.
“I didn’t know you were carrying a weapon,” she teases, her eyes hazing with lust as her fingers wrap around my suit lapels.
I laugh darkly but don’t bother with a witty response. I need to taste her again. This girl who just agreed to be mine–not for money, not in a contract, but truly mine. It feels like the first time I’ve touched her for real, and yet, her perfect body is so familiar to me. Leaning in, I wrap my arms around Whitney, holding her to me as I capture her lips.
And then we’re making out once more, and it feels so fucking good to kiss her as much as I want–no rules, no restrictions. For years, I’ve held back with Whitney, keeping our lip contact to a minimum because I knew from the start that her kisses were dangerous. I didn’t normally need a no-kissing rule for my woman. Just Whitney. Because deep down, I knew the connection would unravel my carefully composed strategy to keep her at an arm’s length. Every time I lost that battle of self-discipline and stole a kiss, it was electric. And now, her lips are all mine.
Our hands join the fray, exploring each other frantically, and I wish she were back in her sexy silver dress, where I would have access to so much more of her. It’s fucking torture not to take her right here in the elevator, but tonight, I want to romance her and I want to make it last.
My heart pounds an unsteady rhythm against my ribs as her fingers travel up over my pecs, sliding beneath my jacket as she touches me sensually, her palms finding the place above my heart. I’ve never let her do that before–aside from the one time I let her use my chest for balance as she rode me. Usually, I keep her hands tied or preoccupied in some fashion to avoid the intimacy of it, and now, the erotic nature of it strikes me with full force as her nails glide across the back of my neck, raising goosebumps on their way to my hair.
She feels so fucking wild and free. God, does it feel good to be with her, kissing her, exploring her without reservations, without barriers or rules to separate us. My heart’s so full, I feel it might explode. And now that we’re doing this, now that we’re making this relationship real, I don’t know how I waited so long to make the decision. Now that Whitney revealed her own feelings, all I can think about is making love to her for the first time. It makes me throb with a deep, subconscious desire.
By the time we make it down to the first floor, I’ve groped every inch of her, disrupting her perfectly put-together appearance in my desperation to have all of her and yet wait. Grudgingly, I pull away as the elevator doors ding open, and Whitney releases a breathy laugh as she tries to straighten herself out. I do the same, pulling my jacket into place and adjusting my tie as we step out of the elevator and into the Lake Pointe Tower lobby.
Whitney’s hand slips into the crook of my elbow as we reach the exit, and I glance down to admire her vibrant, deeply happy expression as I open the door for her. A brisk winter breeze ruffles her hair, and the smile that plays across her lips takes my breath away. As we step out onto the sidewalk, I grudgingly tear my eyes from her to look up and find the valet.
But something catches my eye–something out of place. At first, it’s nothing more than an instinct, the hair rising on the back of my neck in warning. It only takes me a moment to realize that the car driving past us is going far slower than the rest of the traffic. A horn blares behind it, and I frown as the window rolls down enough to reveal several men holding automatic weapons and sneering.
“It’s your day of reckoning, Ilya Popov. Time to finally get what’s coming to you!” one shouts in Russian.
My heart thuds to a stop in my chest as I grasp the full gravity of the situation. I’m about to die. Of that, I am sure. And surprisingly, the thought doesn’t scare me, even in its suddenness. For an instant, it fills me with a deep sadness as I realize my life with Whitney is going to come to an end before it’s truly even begun.
And then, like a freight train, sheer terror plows through me as my mind fills with thoughts of Whitney. She’s standing right next to me. She’ll get caught in the line of fire with the rain of bullets that’s sure to come ripping through me. I can’t let her die. I only have a moment to react as I spin toward her, wrapping my arms around her and shielding her the best I can with my own body.
Her eyes meet mine, her expression full of wide-eyed astonishment followed by terrible fear.You’ll be alright.I will the thought to be true. And then white-hot pain erupts across my back, blinding me to the world. I think I hear Whitney scream as my limbs grow impossibly heavy. And then nothing.
37
WHITNEY
In an instant, my world shatters, exploding into a million shards of ragged edges and sharp points. Icy fear plummets through me as the rapidfire shots of multiple automatic rifles fill the air, and then Ilya’s large, muscular body, curved around mine to shield me, suddenly goes limp. I scream uncontrollably as I realize what he’s done. My arms wrap around his waist in a fruitless attempt to catch his dead weight, but the effort brings me to the ground with him.
“Ilya!” I scream, desperate to call him back to me, but I’m sure he must be dead with how many bullets he took in an effort to protect me. He slumps lifelessly on the sidewalk, his face deathly pale, his head lolling back.
Tires squeal as the monsters responsible vanishe around the corner in their unremarkable black SUV. They didn’t stick around to see if they successfully killed him. With how many bullets they riddled him with, they wouldn’t have to. A deep, all-consuming hatred fills me when I think of those men and what they took from me. But I don’t have time to think about that now. Even as I cling to my brave, bull-headed Russian, I fear I’ve already lost him.
“Help!” I wail as cradle Ilya’s limp body to my chest. His big, muscular arms hang uselessly by his sides. “Help us!” I scream again, though I don’t know what anyone could possibly do.
In an instant, I’m surrounded by a pool of his blood as it pours from countless wounds. My hands are slick with it, but I don’t care. I keep my palms pressed to the oozing bullet holes speckling his back, my fingers splayed wide in a childish attempt to keep his life from escaping. Vaguely, in the background, I think I hear someone calling for an ambulance.
“Please don’t leave me, Ilya. Please, please, god, don’t leave me!” I beg as I hold him desperately, my ear pressed to his firm chest. But I can’t hear anything over the roar of my own pulse. My heart shatters as I realize that we finally found each other only for Ilya to leave me so utterly alone in this world. Deep racking sobs shake my body, and I cling to him harder, unwilling to let go.
