Torrid (Sordid 2)

“What?” he asked, looking down at himself. “Did I get some on me?”

I almost laughed, but was too distracted by my relief. “No. I was just curious if you were okay.”

A slow smile crept across his lips as he unclipped the holster from his back and dropped it to the floorboard with a thump. “Worried about me, baby?” He stabbed a finger on my seatbelt, releasing it, and tugged me into his lap so I was straddling him. His eyes were wild with adrenaline. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

“That’s great.” I made half an attempt to get out of his lap. I wasn’t as motivated to put space between us as I should have been. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Lights from the highway streaked across his handsome face as he kept me from scrambling away. “Jesus. Let a guy catch his breath first.”

The breath he wanted to catch must have been my own, because his icy hands inched beneath my sweater and grazed my belly. I flinched at the contact, but mostly from the cold, rather than his touch. His glittering eyes connected with mine in the darkened back seat, and the air thickened.

As his palms burrowed up my sweater, the story spilled from him.

There’d been no hesitation pulling the trigger, even though the kill was personal. It gave me hope that when the time came to end my father’s life, I’d be able to do it. If not, perhaps the man whose hands closed around my breasts could. But I still had a long way to go before I could tell Vasilije the truth.

He trailed his fingertips over my bra as he talked about ransacking the house afterward, which explained why he was sweaty and short of breath when he’d reappeared. I wasn’t prepared for the bombshell he dropped, though. I had to say it again.

“You listened to the song I wrote?” My brain wouldn’t function. “Why?”

“Because it’s mine?” He said it like I’d asked a stupid question. “The music was fucking perfect, Oksana.”

Holy shit. My spine went weak. He’d been impossible to read before, only offering me the infuriating comment that the song was good. Was he fucking with me? I repeated it in disbelief. “Perfect?”

His expression was serious. “Yeah. Now stop squirming or you’re going to get me hard and I’m gonna make you blow me again.”

I swallowed a breath. “John didn’t seem to mind last time.”

“You want it, huh?” He pinched my nipple through the bra, twisting until I whimpered, and his eyes flooded with heat. “You’re so turned on, you’ll take my dick in any hole you can get, won’t you?”

It wasn’t the murder that had worked me up, but Vasilije, who was riding the high of invincibility right now. His power leeched off onto me, and I grew hot and damp between my thighs. Having him call my composition perfect had taken me right to the edge. I was desperate. Needy to connect with him in any way possible.

“Go on,” he said, leaning back against the seat, oozing confidence and sex. “My pants aren’t going to undo themselves.”

?

Vasilije had to work on Black Friday. He’d explained the shopping holiday to me last night and I’d nodded, pretending to be clueless. He was up and gone before I was awake, so I went to the piano, eager to compose a second song.

He’d killed someone last night, and all I could think about was music. How fucked up was I?

Whitney, his personal chef, appeared at eleven a.m. I’d been too engrossed in my playing to hear her at first. She’d brought in several plastic bags, set them on the counter, and lingered in the kitchen, listening to the song.

As soon as I finished, she strode toward me. She was younger than I expected, appearing as if she wasn’t even forty. Her brown hair was cut short and stylish, and as she smiled widely, it showed off her perfectly straight, white teeth.

“Oksana,” she said warmly. “I’m Whitney. You play beautifully.”

I rose to stand and took her offered handshake. “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.”

Her grip was ferocious and she shook my hand a fraction too long, as if distracted. “First Luka, and now this.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The way these Markovic boys are when they find a girl they like. They just go all in, don’t they?” She gave a light laugh. “I didn’t even know he was serious with anyone.” She sobered a little, contemplating her own statement. “But then again, we don’t talk like we used to. He’s been . . . different since his father passed.”

Her expression was surprising. She was sad, as if she missed her friend.

I took in a deep breath. I’d been told Vasilije was charming and the life of the party, but hadn’t seen it for myself. Learning the truth about his mother’s death and killing Dimitrije had changed him.