I released the breath I was holding, a smile pulling on my lips.
He didn’t even glance my way, but he must have felt my triumph because he said with dry humor, “Not so gracious a winner though.”
Amusement filled my stomach again, but suddenly, with the motion of the car, a bout of dizziness hit me.
He noticed, of course. “When was the last time you ate?”
I chewed my lip. “This morning.”
His eyes flared with disapproval, probably because it was the meal I only ate half of in his office. “Do you starve yourself often?”
I frowned. “No. I just forget sometimes.”
“What are you hungry for?”
Anything, really. But one thing came to mind.
“French fries.”
He smiled. “Such an American girl.”
Five minutes later, I had a hot container of french fries in my hand. I ate the salty pieces of heaven with relish. He watched me eat, giving me more attention than he gave to the opera we just watched, and it made my heart play with fire in my chest.
I offered him one, which annoyed him.
“Stop giving away the things I buy you.”
To hide a small smile, I bit the fry in half.
His eyes dropped to my mouth, and warmth poured through my body as I licked the salt from my lips. Ronan’s irises were a desolate black when he glanced away.
We spent the rest of the short ride in silence. His hand rested on his thigh, and I’d never been more aware of a man’s hands in my life. I bet they would touch a woman with assurance, with confidence . . . maybe even a little roughly. At the thought, the thigh showing through the slit in my dress vibrated with hypersensitivity. Goose bumps spread across my body where my leg brushed his, and Ronan’s narrowed gaze observed the contact, a tattooed finger tapping on his leg.
The soda can of a car popped and fizzed.
My body grew hot as I imagined him sliding his hand up that bare skin and beneath my dress. Just the idea of it hit me like a drug, a hot and restless energy expanding in my blood.
Although, I knew he wouldn’t touch me. Not naïve and innocent me. I knew if I wanted him to see me differently, seriously, I would have to take matters into my own hands. I would have to be forward, like Liza.
Knowing a note from her sat in his pocket offering most likely some kind of sexy proposition and the fact he might have left me at the car to go meet with her, I felt oddly . . . jealous. An uncomfortable knot twisted and turned inside of me, and that hint of green fire gave me a rush of bravery.
Well, a tepid rush of bravery.
As he walked me up to my room, nerves danced and wreaked havoc in my stomach. My hands were clammy, so I wiped them on my dress.
“You never told me what you do,” I said absently to distract myself, because that tepid bit of bravery grew colder with each step closer to my door.
He was saying something from one step behind, but I couldn’t hear a word. My heart pounded in my throat, blood rushed to the surface of my skin, and then, I did it.
I turned around and kissed him, mid-sentence.
It was slightly off-center. Unpracticed. Our teeth clinked.
I pulled back to see his eyes sparkling with dry amusement as he wiped the side of his mouth with a thumb. But I was too hot, too high on the small contact of our lips to be embarrassed about what an utter failure that was.
“Kotyonok.” He drew the word out in a low warning. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Nope.
Not at all.
I shook my head.
He watched me. “Do you usually kiss your dates like that?”
So, it was a date?
I shook my head again and said breathlessly, “You’re the first.”
The amusement in his eyes faded to pleasure. Heat. Something soaked in intensity and satisfaction. He stepped forward, forced my back to the door, and rested his hands on the frame above my head. My pulse was a distant whoosh in my ears, overwhelmed by the tremor that rolled across my skin and the closeness of his body. I couldn’t find enough air to breathe.
His voice resonated warmth, a thoughtful rumble so close to my mouth I could taste it. “I have always loved coming in first.”
Then his lips touched mine, softly, only a whisper. Like I was too young, too innocent to handle anything else.
A rage of heat dropped to my core at the lightest brush of his mouth on mine. I needed more.
So much more.
I touched his face, ran a hand across his cheek and into his hair, and pulled his lips harder against mine. He didn’t like that, and he told me so by nipping my bottom lip. The graze of his teeth moved a desperate noise up my throat. I thought he might step away, conflict and my heavy breath between us, but he drew on my lips sweetly, first the top lip, and then the bottom.
Every inch of me vibrated beneath the surface, hummed and inflamed whenever my body touched his. I rolled my hips and arched closer against him, feeling incredible heat beyond his expensive black suit, and then I licked the inside of his mouth. Like a reflex, he sucked on my tongue. Heat, tiny pricks of heat, consumed me from the inside out.
He pulled back to roughly say, “Ty dazhe na vkus sladkaya.”
I had no idea what it meant, but I didn’t care enough to ask. I just wanted the pressure of his mouth back on mine. I gave in to the urge to slide my tongue across the scar on his lower lip.
The lick saturated the air like some kind of dirty, carnal sin.
With a dark look, he closed the small distance, and I was lost. Any reservation in him melted with every press and dip, every touch of our lips. Each kiss was harder, wetter than before. A blaze seared through me as I drew my blunt nails down the length of his back. He growled low in his throat, and the slow glide of his mouth roughened.
Ronan stepped closer, pressing his hard-on against my lower stomach. When his lips moved to my throat, my head fell against the door with a moan. His hands remained braced on the frame above me. Hot and wet, he kissed a path down my neck that set off sparks deep in my core. My vision turned hazy, a heavy heartbeat pounding between my legs. I was a combustible ball of fire burning hotter every second.
He dragged his lips past my collarbone and nipped the soft flesh above my bodice. My nipples tightened at the closeness and warmth of his mouth. I was losing my mind in this hallway; would suddenly do anything for him to tug my dress down, bare my breasts, and put his mouth on them.
My hands were all over him: his face, his hair, now sliding up beneath his vest to feel his stomach, which was as tight as it looked.
“Touch me,” I begged.
His hands didn’t move from above my head, but as if he knew what I needed, he pressed his thigh between mine. Right against my clit. I panted, a wave of pleasure sliding down my spine when I rocked against it, already feeling the budding pressure of release.
I was nothing but need, flushed and wet and wanting.
He pulled back, his eyes narrowed but full of heat as he watched where I grinded on him. Watched the bare length of thigh that showed through the slit in my dress. Tension lit the line of his shoulders, tightened the muscles in his arms, and the idea he might be trying to stop only made me more desperate for this to continue.
I gripped a handful of his hair to pull his mouth back to mine. He refused. I tugged harder. He made a rough noise in his chest, then his eyes lifted to mine, alight with a challenge. He brushed my lips, but when I moved in to deepen the kiss, he pulled back just out of reach. To tease me, or to make sure I knew who was running the show. When I waited impatiently, he gave me what I wanted, nipping my bottom lip, hard, and then licking it.
I moaned into his mouth and rocked against his leg, needing more friction. The empty pressure between my thighs built and built, and I kissed him without finesse, humming desperately into his mouth.
“Fuck,” he rasped against my lips. “Are you going to come on me, kotyonok?” His accented voice grated abrasively as sand.
I couldn’t say anything if I wanted to.
He pressed his leg harder against me.
I put my face into his neck, biting down when the orgasm whipped through me—a sweltering inferno that knocked the breath from my lungs. In its aftermath, I shivered against him.
He finally touched me, fisting my hair and pulling my head back to look at me.
Eyes half-lidded, my head fell to rest against the door. Maybe I should be embarrassed by how easily and ridiculously fast he brought me to release. Instead, I felt nothing but his body heat, how incredibly hard he was against me, and an overwhelming tingling in my veins.
He stared at me for what felt like a long time. And then I watched something violent sweep away the lust in his eyes. Stepping back, his shoulders tense, he left me cold while I struggled to catch my breath.
“Go inside and lock the door, Mila.” It wasn’t soft at all, nor was it a suggestion.
I watched him for a moment and then acquiesced without a word.
Once the door shut behind me, I slid down it, trembling, while the hot burn of his lips still smoldered on my skin.
moonstruck
(adj.) dreamily romantic or bemused
A knock woke me. I groaned and pulled my pillow over my face when I saw it was only seven a.m. I’d stayed up watching Russian sitcoms into the early hours of the morning, my skin flaring with the aftermath of Ronan’s mouth on mine. It made sleep impossible to find.
I still couldn’t believe how quickly the kiss had escalated, that I orgasmed in a public hallway from only the press of his thigh. I would like to think it was the cyclone of teenage hormones and lust I suppressed, but I knew it was because we had chemistry. The kind that sizzled like the sun on hot pavement from simply being in the same room. And now I knew he felt it too. I could only assume his disturbed reaction afterward was due to him remembering I was only nineteen.
Like it would help, I planned to tell him I was actually twenty.
When the knocking continued, I sighed, tossed the comforter back, and padded across the room to answer the door, half-expecting Ivan to be standing on the other side. But it was only a teenage boy holding a large white box with a paper bag on top.
“Mila Mikhailova?”
“Um, yes?”
He shoved the packages into my arms and disappeared down the hall.
I watched him retreat and closed the door with my foot, then set the box on the bed. Peering into the bag first, I smiled. Breakfast. Opening the box, I found a card.
Don’t give this one away.
—Ronan
I lifted out a long faux fur coat. This one was softer and more luxurious than the last. It had to be outrageously expensive, but my easy heart still grew twice its size. I slipped my arms into the coat and sighed as I fell back on the bed, where I ate the delicious vegan pastry while running my fingers through the white fur.
I liked Ronan.
I liked him a lot.
The mere thought of him made my heart pulse to an exciting rhythm. I came to Moscow in search of answers, but now I wanted to see where this feeling could go even more.
The pastry soured in my stomach at the thought of what awaited me at home: a terrifying lecture, Carter, and the mundane. I wished I could avoid it forever, but guilt already suffocated me at leaving Ivan in the dark. I knew I wouldn’t last longer than a week before telling him where I was and kissing my first taste of freedom goodbye, so I planned to make the most of my seven days in Moscow.
Pulling myself out of bed, I showered and dressed in a flirty lemon-colored dress and a pair of thigh-high boots that barely fit into my bag but were necessary for a boost of morale.
As I walked through the lobby, I greeted the girl behind the counter with a smile and a, “Zdravstvuy.”
Her eyes widened, then she dropped her gaze to the computer in front of her. My smile fell. It seemed everyone here disliked me with a single look. Maybe they could tell I was an American. Were our relations with Russia that bad these days?
The straight-faced concierge beside her silently took me in. He looked about as friendly as Miss Trunchbull in Matilda, but at least he acknowledged my presence.
I headed out the front doors, beneath the cold and overcast sky.
My walk was long, and the sliver of bare leg showing was numb three blocks over, but I had to use my cash sparingly and didn’t want to waste it on transportation. With how oddly Ivan was behaving, I didn’t know what lengths he would take to force me back to Miami before my week of freedom ended.
Moscow was a beautiful city, full of rich architecture and history. I took everything in with wide, curious eyes. I was born here, and walking the streets made me feel close to my roots. Even the air felt lighter here, filling my lungs with the taste of emancipation.
I had to stop and ask for directions twice, but eventually, I stood in front of the opera house. The wind whipped at my ponytail, and I shivered beneath my coat. The place looked deserted, but I tried the front door anyway.
It was locked.
I gave it a harder wiggle, but it didn’t budge. I cupped my hands and peered through the glass. The foyer sat empty, not even a janitor sweeping the floors. Maybe I’d have better luck at a later hour.
Disappointed I’d gotten nowhere, I started my trek back.
A few blocks over, a familiar awareness touched the nape of my neck. With an uncomfortable chill seeping through my skin, I halted and turned around. Pedestrians split off to walk around me on the sidewalk. Nobody seemed to pay me any attention, so I tried to push my discomfort away.
I didn’t make it far before feeling it again. Another glance behind me, and through the crowd on the street, I saw a tattooed hand bringing a cigarette to a masculine set of lips. The image reminded me of the man sitting in his car across from my hotel yesterday.
My lungs went cold. Could someone actually be watching me like Ivan said?
Why?
Horrid things like sex trafficking consumed my thoughts as I slipped my hands into my pockets and picked up the pace. I glanced behind me again to see the man in a black coat smoking and following at a comfortable distance. My chest tightened with each quick, shallow breath. Just as I made it to the hotel doors, I looked back to find he was gone.
Then, I ran into something hard and yelped.
“Whoa.”
I knew that voice. I put a hand on my heart as Ronan steadied me.
“You all right?”
“I thought I . . .” I was out of breath.
Maybe that man worked close by, and it was just a coincidence. If he wanted to hurt me, surely he would have done so while I was peering into an empty building on a deserted street like a sitting duck. Right?
I was becoming paranoid. And for that, I blamed Ivan.
“I’m sorry,” I said and stepped back, my unease fading in the heat of his presence.
“What did I tell you about apologizing?”
I frowned. “I ran into you. I was taught better manners than that.”
“Twice,” he said thoughtfully.
I blinked. “What?”
“You’ve run into me twice now.”
How could I forget? It knocked the breath from me. An unfamiliar awareness sparked inside. Madame Richie’s laugh ping-ponged through my head, and a shudder ran across my skin. Confused and slightly disturbed, I opened my mouth to apologize for that again but closed it when his eyes narrowed.
“This city is going to eat you alive.”
I took that literally, and my imagination cast a gruesome scene of zombies tearing into flesh inside my mind.
“You’re not superstitious, are you?” I asked suddenly.
A half-smile pulled on his lips. “Of course I’m superstitious. I’m Russian.”
I rolled my eyes playfully. “Great. Don’t tell me you believe all that D’yavol nonsense too? I’m unwilling to suspend my disbelief regarding red skin and forked tails.”
He eyed me seriously, running a thumb across his bott
om lip. “Oh, he’s real, kotyonok.”
I raised a brow.
“Causing havoc and stealing away virgins at night.”
He said it so sincerely, a soft laugh escaped me. Something heavy and warm settled with each frozen breath between us.
His eyes were cautious as they took me in. “I see you got the coat.”
“I did. Thank you. I definitely don’t deserve it after giving the other one away, but I appreciate it all the same.”
“You would freeze solid in five minutes here without a coat.” His warm gaze settled on my thighs, his next words reproachful. “And you should probably consider wearing pants.”
I glanced down and noticed, with my coat covering my dress completely, it looked like I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. My wardrobe may be impractical, but it was mine here.
“I might have been raised in Miami, but I was born in Moscow,” I told him. “I have some Russian blood in me as well.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the warmth between us disappeared like a puff of smoke, replaced with something frostier than the cold. My lungs grew tighter each silent second until I gestured to the hotel doors.
“Would you like to . . . come up?”
“No.”
Okay. Talk about being shot down.
“You were just skulking outside my hotel then? Waiting for unsuspecting women to run into you?”
A snort sounded from behind, and I turned to see Albert standing at the curb smoking another cigarette.
Ronan walked toward the car. “Come. We’re going to lunch.”
He wasn’t asking, but my infatuated heart pulled me in his direction without a single complaint.
He turned to look at me. “Don’t expect french fries though.”
“In that case . . .” I stopped with my hands in my coat pockets as if I’d suddenly changed my mind.
It earned me a soft laugh that warmed my stomach like a sip of hot chocolate, and I gave Albert a winning smile. “Good morning, Igor.”
The Darkest Temptation Page 7