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I dip my fingers inside myself as I reach up with my free hand and tug one of my nipples.
“Yes, Sugar, just like that.”
I moan, knowing this is wrong, but nothing has ever felt so bad and so good before.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he snarls as he comes in his hand and over his stomach.
The sight of it triggers my own release. I grip the edge of the desk to stop myself from falling as a shockwave of pleasure pulses through me. When Maxim says my name, my eyes snap to his as he slowly walks toward me. He takes my hand, the one I just fucked myself with.
“Thank you,” he whispers before he slides two of my fingers into his mouth and sucks.
I whimper as his tongue strokes over me, the act more illicit than if he’d just stuck his dick inside me. He slips my fingers free, then reaches over with his hand. I hold still while he traces my lips with his thumb. When I realize I can taste his cum, I yank myself back as horror and shame wash over me.
“You said you wouldn’t touch me,” I choke out, but I’m more mad at myself than at him.
“Sugar—” he starts, but I ignore him, practically running from his office. I don’t stop until I’m back in my room, slamming the door behind me.
Any peace I found earlier in the bath has been washed away, leaving behind a sick feeling. I might not have let Maxim fuck me, but I just fucked myself. I feel the urge to jump in the shower and wash away the shame I feel, but I’d have to pass the mirror. And right now, I don’t think I can even look myself in the eye.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Iavoid the man as best I can over the next few days, only talking to him when I absolutely have to. He tries to engage me in conversation, but I turn and walk away. I don’t trust him. Worse—I don’t trust myself.
Keeping at least one of his promises, he loaned me his laptop briefly to contact Calix. That’s when it dawned on me that I didn’t know his email address. Hell, after just being released from prison, the man doesn’t even have a cell phone. I kick myself for not thinking about it earlier. I should have picked one up for him. I should have—
“Are you done with the silent treatment yet?”
I look behind me at the sound of Maxim’s voice but turn back to the window before answering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”Lie.“I just have nothing to say.”
I hear his footsteps approach before his hand is on my arm, spinning me around, his face in mine as he grits his teeth.
“I don’t like you holding yourself back from me.”
I snort. “I don’t really care what you like. I don’t like the fact that I can’t go home. I don’t like the fact that I can’t reach my husband to let him know I’m okay. I don’t like the fact that I’m being blackmailed by the Russian fucking—”
His hand covers my mouth, making the rest of what I am saying come out garbled.
“Don’t say fucking unless you want me to push you to your knees while I thrust my cock inside you. I’m not a good man, Sugar, and right now, I want to do very bad things to you. So, unless you want me to pin you down while I take what you’re so desperate to deny us both, then I suggest you shut up.”
We’re both breathing heavily by the end of his speech, partly from the murderous intent I feel toward him and partly because I want him to do all the wicked things he mentions.
“I’m going to remove my hand now.”
The moment his sin leaves mine, all the fight drains from me.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” I tell him wearily. I just want to keep out of his way, find this stupid freaking spy, and then leave while I still have a sliver of dignity left.
“Shame. Fighting with you is the best part of my day.”
He pushes himself away from me and heads for the door. “I’m giving a speech tonight at a charity event. It’s black-tie. An outfit will be arriving for you within the hour. Do you want me to bring in someone to do your hair or your makeup?” His tone is even, but I can still pick up the threads of his frustration.
“No, I can manage.”
The bruising has faded now to a gross yellowy-green color, but at least it’s easier to hide with makeup. Plus, the swelling has gone down, which is a bonus. He nods and leaves.
I wrap my arms around myself and return to gazing out the window. I watch as snowflakes dance in the air before covering the ground in a thick white blanket. There is something about snow that always feels like a fresh start. But as new and fresh as it might seem, I never forget how it can also be brutal and chaotic. Sometimes I feel like a snowflake myself, caught up in a blizzard, being thrown around all over the place until I can’t tell which way is up anymore.
I don’t know how long I stand there before the smell of something cooking draws me from my room, and I head toward the kitchen, where I find the old Russian cook stirring a large pot of stew. We don’t talk to each other due to the language barrier, but we offer small smiles. She indicates for me to sit as she ladles stew into a bowl and slides it in front of me before bending and pulling freshly baked bread from the oven. She breaks off a hunk and hands it to me, then mimes dunking it in the bowl.
