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“Why are you afraid of me?” he asks.
“Because I have to be.” It’s out of my mouth before I even think about it. He seems to find that incredibly interesting. I feelsomething.What the hell is this feeling? I feel tangled. And terrified because this man seems intent on unraveling me. Luckily, he drops the issue, though I have a sneaking feeling this conversation isn’t over.
The steak is phenomenal, and the wine goes incredibly well with it. Though it occurs to me that wine this good probably goes well served with a cardboard box. I go to the railing and admire the view of Central Park. The sun is still up, setting over the tops of the buildings, but the park is already cast in shadow. Sean comes up beside me, leaning with his forearms on the rail. He isn’t touching me, but I can feel the heat radiating from his body. I want to blame the wine for the warmth I feel settling in my core, but I know better.
“Did you mean what you said? About why you’re keeping me here?” The wine does help with that question.
“Yes.”
He regards me for several minutes before he continues. “Also because the violence between the Bratva and the mob will get worse before it gets better. If I let you go, you could give Popov intelligence that might get more of my men killed.”
I try to cut him off but he shushes me by gently putting a finger over my lips. He continues, “And if he thinks you betrayed him, then when he gets his hands on you, and he will, he will torture you for everything you know and then kill you.”
My heart is pounding in my ears, my breathing shallow. I’m acutely aware of him touching my lips, of how close his body is to mine. With an impressive amount of self control, I close my eyes and step back.
I have to remember where I am, and who I am. I am a reporter, undercover as a Bratva assistant, kidnapped by the head of the Irish mob and living in his house. It’s a luxurious jail, but still a jail. And preferable to being tortured and killed by my former employer. I look up at the man standing before me. Exactly what would he do if he found out who I really am? What I really am? And what is this chemistry I feel? It’s not one-sided. I can see it in his eyes, and in the lacy bra and thong I’m wearing right now.
“Why is your hair a different color?” His question pops me out of my internal metaphorical debate.
“Oh, um, I washed it out. It was just temporary dye basically.”
He steps toward me and gently pulls a lock over my shoulder. “This way is better.”
For some reason, it’s probably the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. I blush.
He steps closer and tips my chin up toward him. “Did you know your eyes change color? When you blush, or cry, or get furious, they turn greener than anything I’ve ever seen before.”
And then he kisses me.
CHAPTER22
Sean
Jesus fuck, kissing her is like heaven.
I know I’m a bastard for kissing her like this. With everything she’s been through in the last day, a good part of it my fault, and with stitches still in her lip, I shouldn’t be kissing her. Once I realized she was the same girl I’d seen weeks ago in Central Park, the same one that I couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t stop dreaming about, I needed to kiss her.
She stiffens at first, then I feel her body melt against me. I wrap my arm around her back and pull her toward me, my other hand keeping her chin tipped up. She moans into my mouth, her hands holding my shoulders, bringing us closer. I feel her breasts pressed against my chest as she stands on her tiptoes. I smell the peppermint in her hair and taste the red wine on her lips.
I walk us backward, until her back is against the sliding glass door and I’m caging her in with my arm above her head and my body crushed against her. When my throbbing hard cock presses into her stomach, I feel a shiver run through her body. I pull the sweater away from her neck, kissing down her jaw and throbbing pulse. I run my hands up her flat stomach to her breasts. I realize she’s wearing the bra I purchased for her and a possessive growl rumbles from me. Massaging her breasts, I feel her nipples pebble up in arousal. When I roll one between my thumb and finger, she moans.
“Oh, my god, yes.”
I rock my hips against her, my cock aching for more contact. I return my lips to her mouth, drinking from her like a dying man. I run my hands through her thick, soft hair and gently pull.
She hisses, her whole body tensing in pain.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” I’m looking straight into her eyes when I see her blink back tears.
“It’s just my scalp. My hair was pulled a lot yesterday and it’s still kinda sore.”
Oh, fuck. I did this to her.My men, acting on my behalf, hurt her.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Rebecca. I swear to Christ no one will hurt you again.”
She freezes. “No one can promise that, Sean.” Her voice sounds much older in that moment, weighed down by fatigue and sadness. She slips under my arm and walks away. I hear her footsteps retreating down the hall to her room.
Fuck.
