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“Do me, malyshka.”
I jerk inwardly at the nuanced meaning. Memories of us doing each other naked in his bed assault my mind, and a faint pulse of arousal starts beating in my belly.
Slowly leaning back with a predatory gleam in his eyes, Yan releases me to rest his arms in a deceptively casual pose on the armrests. I do the wise thing. I jump to create distance between us, rummaging through the contents of the makeup case. Grabbing a tray of cream-based foundations, I study them in the stark glow of the naked bulb.
“I need better light.”
“This is all you get.”
I select a color that corresponds to the darker skin tone of the bearded man and take a wedged sponge from its package. To reach his face, I have to step closer, my thighs brushing the insides of his legs. My body tightens with an uninvited sensation, one that sends heat to my core. I busy myself by dragging the sponge through the foundation, soaking up just enough of the cosmetic to spread it evenly over his cheek without creating a caked effect.
At the first swipe over the hollow of his cheek that emphasizes the stark lines of his high cheekbone and strong nose, my hand starts to shake. I have to lean closer to reach. Tilting back his head, he holds my gaze with the piercing interest of a lover, or maybe an animal on the hunt, as he offers his face like a canvas. It’s not the unconventional beauty of the canvas I focus on, but that he’s offering me anything at all. Men like Yan give nothing easily. Emotions? Never. I can forget about counting on his compassion to escape alive.
I scoop up more foundation, dabbing it onto the rough skin of his jaw. He shaved. By the smell of soap still clinging to him, he showered, too. I take a deep breath, but it’s useless. I can’t keep my hand steady. I freeze when he closes his legs the tiniest bit, squeezing my hips softly. My lower body starts to hum, and more heat pools in my abdomen. The notion of pending death only adds to the sensations, making my body feel more alive than ever. Every bolt of awareness that runs through me is amplified. When you’re hungry, food tastes extra good. When death is so real you can taste it in the back of your mouth, physical awareness is stronger. I’m powerless to control these impulses. As before, my body responds to him. My flesh doesn’t recognize that the man who gave it life is the same one who’ll take it away forever.
“Nervous?” he drawls.
Another nuanced question. He knows the answer. He can feel it in the unsteadiness of my hands. With his fine-tuned killer senses, he can probably hear the minute change of my breathing as my pulse quickens.
There’s no point in denying the truth. Biting my lip, I nod.
For some reason, my answer pleases him. He likes to make me nervous.
Keeping my gaze, he places his hands on my thighs, just below the hem of his shirt. His broad, calloused palms are abrasive on my skin, making my flesh contract. Measuring my reaction with his piercing, all-noticing stare, he slowly glides his hands up under the shirt until they rest on my naked ass.
My shiver is visible. Electric shocks run down my spine and up my legs to collide in the center. Like an invisible charge, the current explodes in my clit, making it swell with an instant ache. Watching me, reading me, he rubs his hands down the back of my thighs and up my inner legs. I pinch my knees together, trying to hide his effect on me, but he pushes them apart with little effort. At the seam of my folds, he stops. I hold my breath.
The lazy casualness of earlier is gone. The hunger in his eyes is blade sharp. More dangerous. Edgier. For one, two seconds, we freeze, me in a desire to deny my body’s reaction—I don’t want him to know how much power he wields over me—and him with the unmistakable intent of examining that reaction. Then he moves his hands back to my ass with a gentle sweep. Tightening his fingers on my globes, he yanks me to him, hard. I collide with his body and grab his shoulders to steady myself. His hard-on is trapped between us, pressing at the seam of my opening. I try to push away, but the harder I fight to escape, the tighter he holds me. All I’m accomplishing with my squirming is rubbing myself over his erection.
I stop.
He grunts. “Come here.”
I can’t come any closer. I’m practically on his lap. And that’s exactly where I want to be, whatever happens after be damned. If I’m going to die anyway—
