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My cock is hard, almost throbbing with the need to release. And she’s so close. One room away. There’s even a door connecting us.
But I don’t want her in a separate room. I don’t want her out of my sight, period. I want to feel her body against me, her delicate hand stroking over my skin, her mouth letting loose those delicious little gasps…
I wrap my hand around my cock.
“Fuck,” I rumble. I can’t remember the last time I was this turned-on.
Actually—I can.
Last night.
I hear her voice in my head. I feel her silky skin on my tongue and wrapped around my waist.
I stroke my hand to the feverish pace I set last night. It was almost impossible to hold off my pleasure when Cora felt so good coming around me.
I press one palm to the cold tile and work myself with the other. Pleasure twists low in my gut, tightening the way they did last night when I could feel her orgasm pulsing through her, through both of us.
She was so tight…
“So fucking tight,” I whisper.
I squeeze my eyes closed and see her body, naked beneath the lapels of my suit jacket. Her breasts bouncing with every thrust.
Ivan…
Then I come.
“Fuck.”
I spill down the drain, pump after pump after pump until I sag against the cold shower wall.
But even when I’m done, I don’t feel relieved. The tension is still right where I left it. So is the need.
Goddammit.
This woman might be a bigger problem than I thought.
20
IVAN
“Did a cold shower help?” Yasha asks. He’s sitting in my office with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, a shit-eating grin on his face that makes me think he knows exactly what I was doing upstairs.
“It would be great if you could at least pretend to be professional for once in your godforsaken life.”
“Do you meanactuallypretend? Or do you mean the way you’re ‘pretending’ to marry Cora? ‘Cause I think I can manage the first one.” He places his feet flat on the floor and sits tall with a faux-serious scowl on his face. “How is this?Yes, sir, Mr. Pushkin, sir. Right away, sir. Very good, sir. Pip-pip cheerio, tally-ho, sir.”
I learned years ago that it is better to ignore Yasha when he’s in a mood like this. Mostly because it’s usually a good sign. If things are going to plan, Yasha is a goofy jackass. When shit hits the fan, he turns grim.
I glare at him until he holds up his hands and slouches back into his seat. “Fine. I’m here, I’m professional, I’m ready to talk business.”
“Then talk,” I deadpan.
He sighs. “Francia is under guard. I moved her out of her apartment, since Cora was using her name last night at the party and her place might become a target. Did you ask her about that, by the way?”
“Ask who about what?”
“Cora,” he says. “About why she was using a fake name with you. Was she trying to keep a low profile or—”
