Lethal Nights (Brute Force)

by Lora Leigh

  “Please, Ilya…” The sob in her voice was humiliating because she knew she wanted nothing more than to be taken, to be owned by him.

  “Sweet Emma Jane,” he groaned, the sound of his voice, his accent thicker, rougher, had her womb spasming in need.

  His lips released her, but she could still feel his breath against the sensitive bud as his forehead pressed against her shoulder.

  “Get away from me, draga,” he groaned, one hand clenched on her thigh, the other tightening on her hip. “God help me, get away from me before I take you here, in your kitchen, like an animal and destroy both of us.”

  The image that invoked had moisture spilling between her thighs as they tightened against his hips. She’d never been taken like that. Like nothing mattered but the passion and the promise of chaos.

  And she knew it was something she should never allow. She shouldn’t have allowed it to go this far.

  “Ilya…” She didn’t know if it was a protest or a plea.

  Whichever it was, he slowly released her and moved back. With deliberate movements he pulled the cups of her bra in place and latched them, then slid the material of her dress back in place, though he didn’t attempt to rebutton it.

  Stepping from her, he gripped her hips and lowered her until her feet were on the floor once again before lowering his forehead to hers and staring back at her.

  His expression was tormented.

  Why?

  “Go, pretty girl,” he ordered her again, his voice a roughened rasp. “Go now. While I can still let you go. Warm dinner. I’ll … walk or something…”

  He turned and disappeared from the kitchen. Emma Jane watched him leave, wondering what the hell had just happened.

  * * *

  Fury vibrated inside Ilya’s skull like a temperamental child kicking and screaming at the unfairness of the world.

  If there were a wall he could punch that didn’t belong to Emma Jane, then he’d have no doubt broken his fist by now.

  Instead, he stood on her back porch, a willing target for anyone dumb enough to take a bead on him, the sound of Emma Jane’s hungry cries still ringing in his ears, and contemplated another sleepless night. He was doing nothing more than napping through the night since arriving at Emma Jane’s home.

  He didn’t bother pacing the floors, because it didn’t matter how quiet he was, he invariably woke her. He’d be slipping from his room or back upstairs, and there she’d stand in the doorway of her room, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, her expression too intent to suit him. It was as though she knew the restless hunger plaguing him and shared it.

  There was no way she could know this hunger. This need to have her beneath him, arching to his driving thrusts and crying out for more. And he knew the price she could pay for the pleasure they would share if he wasn’t extremely careful. More careful than he could possibly be and still have her.

  Pressing his fists against the banister surrounding the porch, he fought the need to return to the kitchen and take her.

  Never in his life had he fought such a battle to turn away from a woman. Not to take what he hungered for. But he’d never hungered for anything as he did Emma Jane.

  His lovers never lasted more than a few nights, he never formed relationships, and he never let himself become emotionally involved.

  He never let himself forget he was a liability if he ever allowed himself to care for any woman. Or allowed any woman to care for him.

  He’d walked away from Emma Jane the year before without ever allowing her to guess how just her smile affected him. She’d never known how her laughter touched him or just how bad he’d needed to fuck her.

  God damn …

  Straightening, he ran his hand over his face. He stilled at the action, pausing at his jaw before moving his fingers slowly to the point above his brow where the tattoo of the dragon began. The flesh tingled, that damned almost itch.

  Several times associates had questioned why he didn’t remove the dragon once he was away from Russia. He found that suggestion rather funny. There was no removing the dragon, even if it was what he wanted. The dragon. Not just protective but vengeful, wreaking havoc and blood when needed. Powerful, intuitive, the ink and design unique from any others. It wasn’t just a tattoo, it was his legacy, the only thing he had that linked him to anything good.

  Dropping his hand back to the porch, he clenched his fists, with memories better left forgotten. They would be forgotten were it not for the dragon on his face and a past he knew better than to forget. Even for the time it took to immerse himself in a pleasure unlike any he’d known before Emma Jane.

  Dragonovich. The Dragon’s son.

  Years after his uncle and Ivan’s father had carved the side of his face because he was the image of his father, Ilya could still recall the pain, the betrayal. He bore his formidable father’s dark looks, pale green eyes, and build. From birth he’d been the image of a man he’d never had a chance to know.

  It wasn’t his birth, the dragon, or the reason for it that ensured Ilya never made the mistake of calling any woman his own. It wasn’t even the half brother his mother had given birth to later and who had tried to protect Ilya at one time. No, it was his uncle and Ivan’s father who had decided Ilya’s fate. A fate Ilya had learned the hard way not to fight.

  He was still amazed Ivan had not just braved forming a committed relationship to a woman but actually married her when he’d learned she was pregnant as well. Their pasts were bathed in blood and their present would be as well if they weren’t extremely careful.

  Just because the danger Ivan’s wife, Journey, had faced had come from an unexpected enemy didn’t mean that the monsters from the past weren’t waiting.

  Breathing out roughly, he contemplated calling Ivan and demanding to know if there was more information. All that stopped him was the knowledge that the other man would have called had he learned anything new regarding the attempt on Emma Jane.

  It wasn’t possible that she’d been targeted by anyone other than one of his or Ivan’s enemies. Most likely one of his own.

  But how could anyone know of Emma Jane or guess that he hungered for her as he’d never hungered for another woman?

  Ilya had learned long ago the price that awaited should he allow himself to love, to claim something for his own. The loss of that love was too great a price to bear and it was one he wasn’t willing to pay.

  Until his heart thawed for Emma Jane’s smile, for her laughter, and it had been far too late when he’d realized it was happening.

  And now there was no way to claw back his hunger for her.

  chapter nine

  The weekend arrived with little fanfare and no further drugging kisses or mind-destroying caresses. That didn’t mean Emma had forgotten that taste of the erotic delight Ilya had given her. And even if she’d wanted to forget, the tension growing between them each day and the heated dreams each night refused to allow it.

  She wanted him.

  No, it went beyond simple want. She ached for him, and that ache was growing by the night in a way she hadn’t imagined possible.

  She’d been a virgin when she’d married Matt, and despite his accusations during their marriage, she hadn’t cheated on him. There hadn’t been anyone else in the years since she’d left him either. And she suspected the reason there hadn’t been anyone else was Ilya.

  Acknowledging that didn’t make the situation any easier, and it didn’t change the fact that once he’d eliminated the threat against her, he’d leave and return to his own life.

  The fact that she needed his touch wouldn’t matter, and it wouldn’t change the outcome.

  “I think I’ll turn in early,” she said quietly as she put the last of the dishes away after dinner and glanced around the kitchen to be certain no further cleaning was required. “It’s been a long week.”

  He stood at the bar watching her silently for long moments.

  “We need to talk first.” Hs announcement had her gaze s
winging back to him quickly.

  Leaning against the island, his arms crossed over his chest, he watched her intently. The dragon tattooed on the side of his face seemed to flex dangerously as his jaw clenched. He looked bold, dangerous. Strong.

  This man was rumored to be a criminal, he’d definitely killed before, and he was known for his determined bachelor status.

  There was no future with him and she knew it, just as she had known the year before that she didn’t have a chance of touching his heart.

  “What do we need to talk about?” Suspicion sharpened as he straightened, something dark and far too knowing flashing in his expression.

  A week had gone by with no further incidents. No one had tried to kill her either, a definite plus. Ilya hadn’t touched her, hadn’t kissed her since the night before. He hadn’t even been close enough to touch.

  Nothing may have happened, but the tension was growing to a point that Emma Jane felt the threat anyway.

  “About what?” She couldn’t stand there and talk to him. It was all she could do to get through the evenings with him.

  “Stop running from me, Emma Jane.” It was a warning if she’d ever heard one. “You come in from work, prepare dinner, then spend the evenings in your room. Do you think that’s going to work for much longer?”

  She was actually praying it would.

  “And how is that running from you?” she demanded, though she knew that was exactly what she was doing. “From what I understand you had me investigated pretty thoroughly before deciding to make that offer last year. I work, I come home, I eat dinner, and I go to bed, Ilya. You’ll have to return to wherever you came from for the nightlife you’re no doubt used to.”

  That single brow lifted, causing the dragon arched above it to rear its head back in a gesture of arrogance.

  “Emma Jane, do you truly want to push me this way?” If the look was a warning, then his voice was a dare. “Because I promise you, it’s a one-way trip to the very place you seem determined to avoid. My bed.”

  Her womb actually clenched. Moisture spilled from her vagina and Emma was certain she was on the verge of an instantaneous orgasm.

  “And how would you know what I want?” Tossing the dish towel she realized she was clenching between her fingers to the sink, she glared back at him. “Sorry, Ilya, but even dragons aren’t all-knowing.”

  God, what was wrong with her? She wasn’t like this. She wasn’t a bitch, she wasn’t a confrontational person. What she was, she decided, was a crazy woman.

  “I’m sorry.” She gave her a head a hard shake, unable to stare into those pale eyes or the dark arousal on his face. “I’m tired, Ilya. I’m just really tired.” And she ran from him.

  He was wrong, she hadn’t been hiding, she was running, and not from him but herself.

  The depth of whatever brewed between them was frightening. She’d never felt another person’s presence as she did Ilya’s. She didn’t even have to be in the room with him, as though the tormented lust that roiled in his gaze reached out to her no matter where she was or how far away he was.

  Hurrying to her room and the adjacent bathroom, Emma forced herself into the shower. Showers didn’t help, she knew that, but it gave her time to think. It gave her a chance to find some distance. Placing the damp towel on a towel rack after drying, she collected the bottle of lotion she preferred and moved into the bedroom.

  Perched on the side of her bed, she poured a generous amount into her palm and began spreading it over her body. As she did so, she couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel if Ilya’s hands were stroking over her. They were warm, callused, the slight rasp over her arms and against her thighs had made her ache for more.

  She would have given herself to him that last night he’d touched her, she realized as she pulled on the loose pajama pants and matching top. Right there, on the center island counter, she would have willingly let him take her. And she would have reveled in the pleasure as she did so.

  What would she do when he left though? And she knew the day would come when he walked away. It was there in the regret that lingered in his gaze. He wasn’t a man who would allow himself to love a woman with nothing to offer him but her love in return.

  But then, men didn’t look at love the same way women did. Some men were able to compartmentalize emotion, where many women couldn’t. Especially men whose lives had been as filled with violence as she’d read Ilya’s and his employer Ivan Resnova’s had been.

  As she turned down the quilts on her bed, a sigh slipped from her. It was actually early for her to go to bed, even on a work night. Weekend nights she stayed up later after returning from her parents’ or a night out with friends. She’d asked her friends to stay away for the time being, though, and she’d elected not to go to her parents’.

  Now, ten days after the attempted assault, she found herself reluctant to go to bed, but almost just as reluctant to leave her bedroom.

  If she went downstairs, Ilya would hear her and he’d follow. Just as she knew when he left his room, he knew if she left hers. That sense of combined awareness of each other was both confusing and oddly comforting as well.

  Staring at the bedroom door, she actually considered leaving the room, just to once again test the theory. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d tested it. She had a feeling she’d be testing more than just their awareness of each other though. So far, Ilya had remained aloof since that night in the kitchen, though she knew it wasn’t forgotten by him, any more than it was by her.

  And neither of them seemed willing to face it.

  Had she ever seen such tormented lust in another man’s eyes? she wondered. She knew she hadn’t. There was no doubt Ilya wanted her, just as there was no doubt that eventually he would take her.

  Flipping off the lamp on her bedside table, she leaned back against her pillows and contemplated the darkening ceiling and the man who fascinated her in ways she couldn’t explain. From the day he’d arrived on her doorstep offering her a solution to losing her home, she’d been drawn to him.

  He was dangerous. He was hard. And when he looked at her, she could sense the hunger he felt for her and denied himself. That was something she’d never known before.

  Closing her eyes, she let herself remember the look on his face. The lust and dark need that had filled his eyes even as he ordered her away from him. The warmth of his body against her, the pleasure in his touch.

  As she did so, her hand lifted, her fingers drifting over the side of her breast, rasping the cotton of her top against her sensitive flesh.

  Her breath caught at the sensation.

  How long had it been since she’d been touched before Ilya? Too long, she thought as she brushed her finger against the hard point of her nipple. Her eyes closed, her body softening as she felt heated moisture gathering between her thighs. The thought of Ilya touching her, taking her, had her breathing growing ragged, her body flushed.

  He wouldn’t be an easy lover, but how often had she wondered what it would be like to be taken with such intense hunger?

  Smothering a moan, she let her hand drop to the bed, refusing to attempt to ease the arousal burning through her. She knew masturbating would only make things worse. It only made the need to be touched burn brighter. Not just the need to be touch, but the need to be touched by Ilya.

  Dammit. This wasn’t what she needed in her life.

  She hadn’t asked to be tormented by a man. She hadn’t asked to have someone attempt to kill her or for her life to be turned upside down.

  After the years she’d spent constantly attempting to placate Matt’s childish temper tantrums or to hide his growing abusive nature, she’d hoped for a little peace.

  She didn’t think that was uncalled for in the least, but evidently, she was wrong, because the current state of affairs was anything but peaceful.

  Rising from the bed with the intent of going downstairs for a glass of water or maybe that rest of the wine in the bottle she’d opened a few days befor
e, she slid her feet into her slippers, then froze.

  Her head jerked up as the alarm began shrieking through the house, the sound loud enough to wake the dead.

  Quickly retrieving the handgun from her bedside table, Emma rushed for the door of her bedroom.

  Before she could reach it, Ilya was there, pushing it open and gripping her arm to pull her behind him. He didn’t say a word before pushing her into his room at the other end of the hall.

  “Stay put!” The order was as harsh as his expression before he closed the door in her face.

  She stared at the door as it closed in her face, her mouth dropping open at his order.

  Stay put?

  That wasn’t what they had agreed to.

  That wasn’t what she was doing. This was her home, and she’d promised herself she wouldn’t hide again if it was invaded. She wasn’t a coward and she had no intentions of pretending to be one. And she wouldn’t let Ilya die for her.

  Pulling the door open, Emma slid from the bedroom and started down the stairs. When she was halfway down, the siren abruptly halted and a heartbeat later a blood-curdling scream was abruptly cut off.

  A male scream, and she knew neither Ilya nor that shadow Sawyer would dare make such a sound. That only left the intruder.

  Rushing down the stairs, she paused just outside the kitchen.

  “Ilya?” she called out his name before stepping into the kitchen and coming to an abrupt stop.

  The tableau laid out in front of her was unbelievable. In a million years she would have never come up with this one in her wildest imagination.

  The lights were off, but the light of a full moon was bright enough to illuminate the kitchen. Still, Emma moved her free hand to the light switches and flicked on the dimmer counter light next to the sink.

  The light wasn’t bright enough to blind, but the soft glow clearly bathed the two men who stared back at her silently. One in abject horror, the other with icy, murderous intent.