The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“I may be naïve, but I know a liar when I see one.”

His pause was the only tell of his surprise, shortly replaced by a slow smile. “So there’s some fire in you after all.”

There was so much fire in me, he had no idea. For years, it had festered inside like a volcano, rumbling and pressing at the seams of tight clothes and expectations. It was so close to erupting a cold sweat spread.

“Careful.”

His warning was the last straw. He wanted to see fire?

So be it.

“If the only reason you came here was to warn me away from you, then get out.” My words lashed at the air in the room, the release vibrating beneath my skin with cool adrenaline.

His eyes hardened, the shadows inside them rising to the surface. “Nobody talks to me like that.”

He’d blown the top off the bottle I’d pent everything up in for years. There was no stopping the backlash now. Not even the imposing and threatening presence on my couch.

“Maybe that’s your biggest problem.”

“Kotyonok,” he mocked, darkly amused, “so worried about my problems when you have no idea what kind of shit you’ve stepped into.”

I didn’t know what he meant, but I did know I didn’t appreciate him turning this around on me. He was the liar in the room. And my next words became a battle of wills to make him admit the truth.

“You feel this too,” I insisted.

“I don’t.”

If that was true, it wouldn’t bother him if I froze to death in this frigid city, would it? My frustrated heart sent a burst of energy through me. I paced to the window and slid it open. Then I walked past him with the coat he bought me, having every intention of throwing it to the sidewalk below. But I didn’t make it that far. He was on his feet, ripping it from my hand and tossing it onto the bed.

“You want to play?” His voice was a growl. “Fine, we’ll play.”

Maybe it was true. Maybe they didn’t teach self-preservation in Miami.

He gripped the back of my neck, spun me around, and slammed his lips against mine. Anger still brimmed inside me, and I pushed against his hard chest, but I might as well be trying to move a wall.

“Don’t fight me,” he said roughly against my lips. “You won’t win.”

I opened my mouth with a retort in mind, but he used the opening to slide his tongue inside. And then I was lost to the wetness and heat, the overwhelming fever writhing and pulsing in my veins. I rose to my toes to give him full access; to fit my body against his. I panted, fisting handfuls of his jacket to pull him closer.

He groaned and slid his hands around the backs of my thighs. I made a noise of protest against his mouth when I realized his intention. I was lithe but tall—I wasn’t light—and it was incredibly sexy how easily he lifted me.

Wrapping my long legs around him, I reveled in how well our bodies pieced together. He squeezed the bare flesh of my thighs possessively, making an angry sound in his throat like he’d been thinking about them too much and was furious with me for it. A palm slid beneath my dress, grabbing a handful of my ass as he walked us to the couch and sat.

I straddled his thighs, our mouths drifting apart so he could pull the dress over my head. The soft sound of fabric hitting the floor slowed the urgency of our movements.

My skin prickled with goose bumps where he looked at me. The lacy hem of my thigh-high socks, the thin straps of my white thong, the shallow dip of my navel, and the way my breasts pressed against the edges of my matching bra with every breath.

“Idealnaya,” he said roughly.

Perfect.

He gripped the flare of my hips, palms sliding up. A soft sigh escaped me as the pressure of his touch ached between my legs. He ran a thumb over the yellowing bruise on my waist, eyes flickering with violence. All of the fight in me died like a breeze against a flame, leaving something heavy and softer in its place.

His gentle caress wrapped around my heart and tugged it toward him.

“You feel this too,” I breathed into his mouth.

He bit my bottom lip and responded, “Shut up,” but there wasn’t any heat in it.