Chapter 22: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 22

A big, warm hand settles on my nape, massaging away the tension permeating every muscle in my body. “Are you okay, zaychik?” he murmurs, the pale moonlight reflecting in his eyes as his other hand strokes up and down my arm. “Is the bad dream gone?”

I can’t find the words to respond. The shock is like a million tiny needles stinging my skin, my inner thermostat flipping from hot to cold and back again.

Nikolai and I are in bed.

Together.

He’s holding me on his lap.

The thermostat dials up all the way to scorching, spiking my pulse and sending a dizzying spear of heat straight to my core. We’re all but naked—my pajama tank and shorts are beyond flimsy, and he must be wearing only shorts or briefs as well because I can feel his bare thighs against mine. His skin is rough with hair, his leg muscles so hard they feel like stone.

And that’s not the only stone-like hardness I’m feeling.

The entire world seems to fade away, replaced by the stark awareness of our intimate position and the dark, magnetic force that’s pulled us toward one another from the start. My heart thuds violently in my ribcage, each beat reverberating in my ears as my breath stutters through my parted lips. His face is mere inches from mine, his powerful arms encircling me, holding me in an embrace that’s equal parts protective and restraining.

“Chloe, zaychik…” A strained note enters his deep voice. “Are you okay?”

Okay? I’m burning up, dying from the firestorm of need inside me. He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his breath, smell a hint of minty toothpaste mixing with the sensual notes of his cologne and the salty undertones of clean, healthy male sweat. His eyes gleam with moonlight speckled with shadows, his black hair blending with the night, and I have the surreal thought that he is made of darkness… that like a creature of the underworld, he exists out of the reach of light.

Trepidation curls through me, mixing with the heat burning in my veins, intensifying it in some peculiar, unsettling way. My nipples harden, my inner muscles clenching on a growing empty ache, and my body acts on a long-simmering impulse, my fingers tightening on the hard muscles of his shoulders as my lips press against his.

For a brief moment, nothing happens, and I have the horrifying thought that I’ve misjudged the situation, that the attraction is one-sided after all. But then a low, rough sound rumbles in his throat, and he kisses me back with savage hunger, his arms tightening to form an iron cage around me. His lips devour mine, his tongue stabbing deep, tasting me, invading me in a blatant imitation of the sexual act, and my mind goes completely blank, all thoughts and fears evaporating under the brutal lash of desire.

I’ve never known a kiss so raw and carnal, have never felt arousal so intense it hurts. My skin burns, my heart beats like a fist against my ribcage, and my core pulses with a desperate, coiling need. He bears me down to the bed, pinning me under his heavy weight, and all I can do is moan helplessly into his mouth as my nails dig into his shoulders and my legs wrap around his hips, grinding my throbbing clit against the hard bulge of his erection.

A ragged groan escapes his throat, and he sweeps a hand down my body, his touch trailing fire in its wake. Roughly, he pulls up my tank top, and his callused palm closes over my left breast, kneading it with hungry pressure as his lips crush mine, his kiss consuming me, stealing every exhalation from my lungs. Breathless, dizzy, I strain against him, my hands sliding up to grip fistfuls of his silky hair. The feel of his hot palm on my nipple is equal parts relief and aggravation; it soothes the feverish craving for his touch while intensifying the rapid build of tension. Like a loaded spring, the pressure coils ever tighter in my core, each grinding movement of my hips bringing me closer to the edge, to the relief I’m so desperately seeking.

I’m going to come. The realization sweeps through me a heartbeat before the climax does. My back bows, my legs tighten around his muscled ass, and a choked cry bursts from my throat as heated pleasure rockets through my body. The release is so powerful it wipes away all thought, all reason, and it’s only as I come down from the high and open my eyes that I realize he’s stilled on top of me, his head turned toward the door and his powerful body all but vibrating from tension.

A split second later, I realize why.

“Chloe, is that you? Are you—” Alina freezes in the doorway, her negligée-clad figure outlined by the light streaming in from the hallway.

A light she must’ve turned on when she heard us.

Or more specifically, heard me.

A hot flush sears my face and neck as I realize exactly what she heard—and what she’s seeing.

Me, in bed with her half-naked brother in the middle of the night, my pajama top hiked up to my armpits.

There’s no spinning this as an accident, no mistaking it for anything other than what it is.

“Excuse me.” Alina’s tone turns chilly. “The door was open. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

She disappears into the hallway, and Nikolai mutters something that sounds like a Russian curse. Rolling off me with an explosive motion, he strides to the wide-open door and slams it shut, plunging us back into darkness.

I scramble to a sitting position, yanking down my tank top as I hear his returning footsteps. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.What am I doing? My hand pats frantically along the nightstand in search of the bedside lamp switch, and the light flips on just as the mattress dips under his weight.

For a few beats, we just stare at each other, and I register all sorts of panty-melting details, like the way his straight black hair is mussed from my fingers and how his sensual lips are red and swollen, glistening from our rough kisses. Mine must look the same because I can feel them, damp and throbbing, aching for more of his addictive touch and taste. He’s wearing only a pair of running shorts, and his chest and shoulders are all lean muscle, his abs sharply defined. Unlike the powerful trunks of his legs, which are sprinkled with crisp, dark hair, his torso is smooth, his lightly tanned skin marred only by a pale, puckered scar on his left shoulder.

My heart rate kicks up.

Bullet wound.

I’ve never seen one, but I’m certain I’m right. It’s either that, or a drill bit went through his shoulder.

The lingering glow of orgasm dissipates as fear born of clearer thinking filters in. Who is he, this gorgeous man who appears to be so intimately acquainted with danger?

Why is he in my bedroom, on my bed?

Slowly, I scoot away, not taking my eyes off his. The bullet wound, the bruised knuckles, the wall around the compound, and the guards… There’s a story here, and it’s not a good one. Violence, in some shape or form, appears to be part of my new employer’s life, and I want nothing to do with it, no matter how much my body longs for us to finish what we started.

What I started, by kissing him so thoughtlessly, so brazenly.

At my retreat, his tiger eyes narrow, and I feel his frustration, the simmering fury of a predator witnessing the inevitable escape of his prey. Except it’s not inevitable in our case—with his superior size and strength, he can stop me at any point, and the fact that he remains still despite the tension evident in his powerful muscles is more than a little reassuring.

He must realize what I’m thinking because his expression smooths out, his posture taking on a relaxed, almost lazy vibe. “Don’t worry, zaychik. I’m not going to pounce on you.” His voice is soft, his tone gently mocking. “If you don’t want this, just say so. I’m not in the habit of bedding the unwilling… or anyone pretending to be that.”

My face feels like someone is burning coals under my skin. He’s no doubt referring to my impromptu orgasm, something I haven’t let myself think about yet. Because as shameless as my behavior tonight has been, nothing beats dry-humping him like a bitch in heat—and coming from it.

“I’m not—” I stop, realizing I was about to launch into childish denials. “You’re right,” I say in a more level tone. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have kissed you. That was completely inappropriate and—”

“And it’s going to happen again.” His eyes are like amber jewels in the warm light cast by the lamp. “You’re going to kiss me, and we’re going to fuck, and you’re going to come again and again. You’ll come on my fingers and my tongue, and with my cock buried deep inside your tight, wet pussy. You’ll come as I fuck your throat and your ass. You’ll come so fucking much you’ll forget what it feels like not to come—and you’ll still beg for more.”

I stare at him, my throat dry and my underwear soaking wet. My clit pulses in tune with his softly spoken words, my heart hammering like a woodpecker even as my lungs struggle to draw a single breath. I’ve never had a man speak to me this way, never knew dirty talk could simultaneously turn me on and make me burn with shame.

“That’s not… I’m not…” I drag in oxygen. “It’s not happening.”

“Oh, but it is, zaychik. You know why?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Because this is inevitable. From the moment I saw you, I’ve known it’s going to be like this… hot and wild and raw, completely uncontrollable. And you’ve known it too. That’s why you can barely look at me at mealtimes, why being alone with me makes you so scared.” He leans in, eyes gleaming. “You want me, Chloe… and believe me, I want you too.”

I search for something to say, but nothing comes to mind. Where thoughts should be is a big, blank gap. At the same time, my body thrums with electric awareness, each nerve ending viscerally conscious of his nearness and the dark heat in those leonine, hypnotic eyes. This is so far beyond my realm of experience that I have no playbook for this, no clue how to react, much less act. He’s my employer, the father of my student, and even if he weren’t, there’d still be that aura of danger, of violence, that he wears like a lethal halo. The only sane solution is to shut this down, deny that I want him, but I can’t bring myself to voice the obvious lie.

He waits for me to speak, and when I don’t, his lips tilt up in a mocking half-smile. “Think about it, zaychik,” he advises softly, the muscles in his powerful body rippling as he rises to his feet. “Think about how good it’ll be when you come to me.”

By the time I finally formulate a reply, he’s gone, leaving a faint trace of bergamot and cedar on my sheets—and utter turmoil in my mind and body.