by Anna Zaires
Nothing I do for those girls will ever be enough.
I’m so emotionally drained it takes all my energy to shower and brush my teeth with the little toothbrush the front desk gave me. Coming here for the night was an impulse decision, so I don’t even have a change of underwear with me. I’ll have to stop by my house tomorrow morning before going to work, but it’s better than being home and knowing that my deadly stalker might be watching me at that very moment.
Watching me and wanting me. Maybe even jacking off at the sight of my naked body.
It’s sick, but heat licks between my legs at the thought.
Exiting the shower, I wrap a towel around my chest and stare at myself in the mirror. Visine eye drops did a good job of removing the redness from my eyes, but my lids still look swollen from my crying jag earlier today, and my face is reddened from the hot shower. I also have a tension headache that makes me disinclined to think, which is just as well.
I did too much thinking earlier as is.
George as a spy. George leading a double life. It seems impossible, yet it would explain so much. The FBI agents’ protection that came out of nowhere. His long absences when he supposedly chased a story yet often came home without one. The moods that started shortly after our marriage six years earlier. Did something go wrong on one of his covert assignments?
Could his real job be the reason he changed so much in the years leading up to the accident?
My headache intensifies, and I realize I’m doing it again. I’m thinking about George, obsessing about the past I can’t change rather than focusing on the future that’s still within my control. I should be trying to figure out what to do about the killer who’s stalking me, but my mind simply refuses to go there.
I’ll think about him later, when I’ve had some sleep and my brain isn’t so fried.
Wrapping a second towel around my dripping hair, I open the bathroom door, step out, and jump up with a startled scream.
Peter Sokolov is sitting on the bed, his hooded gaze trained on my face.
17
Sara
* * *
“Don’t scream, Sara.” He rises fluidly to his feet. “No need to involve the other guests in this.”
I gasp for air, needles of adrenaline piercing my skin as he comes toward me, his large body moving with predatory ease.
“You… you followed me here.” My knees knock together as I instinctively back away, clutching the flimsy towel covering my body.
“Yes.” He stops a couple of feet from me, his gray eyes gleaming. “You shouldn’t have come here. Your alarm system at home poses at least a small challenge. Here, I can walk right in.”
“Why are you here?” My heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my throat. “What do you want?”
His lips twitch in dark amusement. “You’re a doctor who deals with the effects of this activity. You can probably guess what I want.”
Oh God. My skin feels both hot and icy, and my pulse jacks up even more. “Get out. I—I will scream, I swear.”
He tilts his head quizzically. “Will you? Why haven’t you done so yet?”
I take another step back, my gaze flicking to the room door for a fraction of a second. Would I make it before he catches me?
“Don’t try it, Sara. If you run, I will chase you.”
I continue backing away. “I told you, I’m not sleeping with you.”
“No? We’ll see about that.”
He comes toward me, and I back up more, my stomach twisting. I know what sexual assault does to women; I’ve seen the aftermath, the physical and emotional wreckage left behind. I don’t know if I can survive that on top of everything else.
I don’t know if I can survive it from him.
My trembling hand touches the door, but before I can twist the knob, his palms slap against the door on each side of me, caging me between his powerful arms.
“You can’t escape me, ptichka,” he says softly, gazing down at me. “Not now, and not ever. You might as well get used to that.”
He’s not touching me, but he’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his large body and see a couple more tiny scars on his symmetrical face. The imperfections add a deadly edge to his magnetism, intensifying its impact on my senses. My heartbeat is a panicked roar in my ears, yet my body tightens in a way that has nothing to do with fear. I should be screaming my head off, or at least trying to fight him, but I can’t move. I can’t do anything but stare at the lethally beautiful killer holding me captive.
“Come, Sara.” His hand slides down to lock around my wrist in a familiar iron shackle. “I won’t hurt you.”
I inhale shakily. “You won’t?” Maybe he’ll be gentle. Please, let him at least be gentle. I’ve experienced violence at his hands, and it terrifies me even more than the specter of rape.
“No. Now come.”
He pushes away from the door, but instead of leading me to the bed, he takes me to the chair in front of the vanity mirror.
“Sit.” He presses down on my shoulders, and I sink into the chair, trying to steady my ragged breathing. What is he doing? Why isn’t he just attacking me? My face in the mirror is deathly pale, my eyes wide as he steps behind me and pulls something from the inner pocket of his jacket.
It’s a small hairbrush wrapped in plastic—one of those cheap ones they sometimes give out in hotels and upscale airlines.
“This is all they had at the gift shop downstairs,” he says, removing the plastic wrap before meeting my gaze in the mirror. “I figured it’s better than nothing.”
Better than nothing for what? Some weird kinky game? My throat constricts, but before the panic can overtake me, he unwraps the towel on my head and drops it on the floor. His strong, sun-browned hands look huge next to my skull as he gathers my hair into a wet ponytail and begins working through the knots with the brush.
Shock steals all air from my lungs. My husband’s killer—the man who’s been stalking me—is brushing my hair.
His touch is gentle but sure, lacking any trace of hesitation. It’s as if he’s done this a dozen times before. He runs the brush through the ends first, getting them smooth and tangle-free; then he systematically moves up until the small brush can run through the entire length of my hair without snagging. And throughout the process, there’s no pain—just the opposite, in fact. The plastic bristles massage my skull with every stroke, and prickles of pleasure run down my spine whenever his warm fingers brush against the sensitive skin of my nape.
Fear or not, it’s the most sensuous experience of my life.
A strange sense of unreality seizes me as I sit there, watching him brush my hair in the mirror. In each of our prior encounters, I’d been so focused on the danger he poses I didn’t pay attention to less important things, like his clothes. So now, for the first time, I notice that he’s wearing a distressed gray leather jacket over a black thermal shirt and a pair of dark jeans paired with black boots. The clothes are casual, something any man might wear during early spring in Illinois, but there’s no mistaking my tormentor for a regular guy on the street.
Peter Sokolov is nothing less than a force of nature, ruthless and completely unstoppable.
He brushes my hair for several long minutes while I sit as still as I can, not daring to twitch a muscle lest I do something to make him stop. Each stroke of the brush feels like a caress, each touch of his rough hands soothing and thrilling at the same time. More importantly, while he’s brushing my hair, he’s not doing other things to me—things I’m dreading.
All too soon, however, he puts the brush down on the vanity table, and his eyes catch mine in the mirror. “Up,” he orders, his hands curling around my bare shoulders and propelling me to my feet.
Swallowing thickly, I turn around to face him when he releases me, but he’s already stepped away and is removing his jacket.
My heart sinking, I watch as he hangs the jacket on the chair and reaches for the bottom of his long-sleeved thermal shirt. In
one smooth move, he pulls the shirt off over his head, and my breath hitches in my throat as he hangs it over the jacket.
His shoulders are wide, his arms roped with thick, clearly defined layers of muscle. More muscle covers his lean, V-shaped torso, and his flat, ridged abdomen lacks even a hint of fat. Like his hands, his chest and shoulders are tanned, as if he’s spent a lot of time in the sun, and his left arm is almost completely covered by tattoos that extend from the top of his shoulder to his wrist. Amidst a dusting of dark hair on his chest, I see several more faded scars, and I catch myself staring at the sexy trail of hair that starts at his navel and disappears into the waistband of his low-slung jeans.
He reaches for the jeans next, unzipping the fly, and I force myself to look away. Despite his primal male beauty, a layer of cold sweat covers my body, and my pulse is sickeningly fast. He might be a gorgeous beast, but that’s all he is: a beast, a cold-hearted monster. It doesn’t matter that under different circumstances, I would’ve been wildly attracted to him. I don’t want what’s about to happen. It would devastate me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him step out of his boots and push his jeans down his legs, revealing a pair of navy briefs stretched over a thick, long bulge, and powerful legs dusted with dark hair. He bends to remove the jeans completely, and my terror reaches a new peak.
Forgetting his warnings, I bolt for the door.
This time, I don’t even get near my goal. He catches me two feet from the door, one strong arm looping around my ribcage and lifting me off my feet while his other hand slaps over my mouth, muffling my instinctive scream.
I claw at his forearms, my feet kicking at his shins as he carries me to the bed, but it’s useless. All I achieve is having the towel unwrap in the back. His arm around my ribcage keeps it from falling to the floor, but my back, buttocks, and the right side of my body are completely exposed. I can feel his bare chest rubbing against my back, smell the clean male musk of his skin, and the unwanted intimacy intensifies my panic, making me struggle even harder.
“Fuck,” he growls as my heel connects with his knee, and I feel a small flare of triumph.
It doesn’t last long. A second later, he falls backward on the bed, dragging me with him, and before I can react, he rolls over, pinning me underneath him. I end up facedown on the blanket, my hands scratching uselessly at the soft surface and my legs weighed down by his heavily muscled calves. With his palm over my mouth, I can’t do anything except make muffled noises, and tears of panic burn my eyes as I feel the hard log of his erection against the curve of my ass. Only his briefs separate us now, and I double my struggles despite the futility of it all.
It takes a couple of minutes for me to wear myself out—and to realize he’s not moving.
He’s restraining me, but he’s making no attempts to take me.
“Are you done now?” he murmurs when I go limp, my muscles shaking from exertion and my lungs screaming for air. “Or do you want to wrestle some more? I can do this all night long.”
I believe him. He’s so much bigger than me that all he has to do is lie on top, and I can neither hurt him nor get away. The effort expended on his part is minimal, while I’m using all my strength with zero success.
“Will you behave if I remove my hand?” His lips hover just above my ear, his breath heating my skin.
My shoulders bunch up to protect my neck from those encroaching lips, and he lets out an audible sigh. “All right, I guess I’ll gag you and get my handcuffs.”
I make a muffled noise behind his palm, and he chuckles. “No? Will you behave then?”
I manage a small nod. Defeat is an acrid burn in my throat, but I don’t want to be gagged and cuffed.
“Good girl.” He shifts off me and removes his hand from my mouth, enabling me to drag air into my oxygen-starved lungs. “Now that you got that out of your system, how about we go to sleep? I know you have a long day tomorrow, and so do I.”
“What?” I’m so startled I roll over onto my back, forgetting my nudity.
A slow, wicked smile curves his mouth as his gaze travels over my body before returning to my face. “Sleep, ptichka. We both need it.”
I sit up and grab a pillow, holding it pressed against my chest as I scoot toward the headboard—as far away from him as the bed allows. What he’s saying makes no sense. He clearly wants me; his huge erection is all but tearing through his briefs. “You… you want to sleep with me? Just sleep?”
The smile leaves his face, and his eyes gleam with dark heat. “Obviously, I want more, but tonight, I’ll settle for sleep. I told you, Sara—I won’t hurt you again. I’ll wait until you’re ready… until you want me as much as I want you.”
Want him? I want to scream that he’s insane, that I will never voluntarily have sex with him, but I swallow the retort. I’m too vulnerable right now, and he’s too unpredictable. Besides, when he’s asleep, I’ll have a chance to get away—maybe even smack him over the head and call the cops.
“All right.” I try to look even more helpless than I truly am. “If you promise not to hurt me…”
His lips quirk. “I promise.” Getting off the bed, he pulls the blanket from under me with one strong tug and turns it down before fluffing up the remaining pillows. Patting the exposed sheets, he says, “Come here.”
I scoot a few inches toward him, hugging my pillow to my chest.
“Closer.”
I repeat the maneuver, my heart thudding with anxiety. I don’t trust him one bit. He could be toying with me, lying about his intentions for some bizarre purpose.
“Get under the blanket,” he says, and I obey, glad to have something other than a pillow to cover me. Unfortunately, my relief is short-lived. As soon as I lie down, he turns off the overhead light and gets under the blanket next to me, his long, muscular body stretching out beside me like he belongs there.
“Roll over onto your right side,” he says and does so himself after turning off the bedside lamp—our last remaining source of illumination.
My ribcage tightens as I understands what he intends.
My husband’s killer wants to spoon with me.
Ignoring the disorienting darkness and the choking feeling in my throat, I turn onto my side and try to breathe evenly as one muscular arm stretches out under the pillow below me and the other one wraps possessively around my ribcage, pulling me into the curve of his big body. However, breathing evenly is impossible. My naked butt nestles against the hard length of his cock, his warm, minty breath fans the fine hair at my temple, and his legs mold against mine from the back. I’m surrounded, completely overtaken by his size and strength. And heat. God, his body generates so much heat. Wherever his bare flesh presses against mine, I feel burned, as if he runs hotter than a regular human being. Except it’s not him—it’s me. I’m so frozen I’m shivering, the cold sweat having evaporated on my skin.
I don’t know how long we lie there like that, but eventually, his warmth seeps into me and transforms into a different kind of heat, the treacherous one that invades my dreams and makes me burn with shame. Now that I’m not so terrified, I’m aware of his powerful body as something more than a threat… of his hard cock as something other than a tool of violation. His warm male scent surrounds me, and my breasts feel heavy and sensitive above the thick band of his arm, my nipples tight and my sex aching with slick, throbbing emptiness. How long has it been since I’ve been held like this? Two years? Three? I can’t recall the last time George and I had sex, much less lay together like lovers, and despite the wrongness of the situation, the animal part of me enjoys being held like this, feeling the warmth of a man’s body and the pulsing hum of arousal in my core.
It’s a good thing I’m not planning to sleep, because there’s no way I’d be able to sleep like this—not with my heart racing a mile a minute and my mind outpacing it with a scramble of thoughts. Fear and anger, arousal and shame—it all blends together, spiking my heart rate and souring my stomach. What does Peter really
want? What does he get out of this bizarre cuddling? That massive erection must be uncomfortable, if not downright painful, but he seems content to lie there, doing nothing more than holding me. Why? What’s his deal? Why did he latch on to me?
And could it possibly be true, what he said about George? Could my husband have somehow harmed his family?
It’s the worst idea in the world, but I can’t stop myself. My mouth seems to operate independently of my brain as I whisper, “Um, Peter… can you tell me something about yourself?”
I can feel his surprise in the minute tightening of his muscles and the change in his breathing. I’ve never addressed him by his name before, but it would be strange to call him anything else when I’m lying naked in his arms. Also, a little emotional intimacy might make him more inclined to answer my questions—and less likely to hurt me for asking them.
“What do you want to know?” he murmurs after a second, shifting to fit me more comfortably against him.
Why do you think my husband massacred your family? That’s what I’m dying to ask, but I’m not stupid enough to go there directly. I remember his rage the last time we touched on this topic. Instead, I say softly, “They told me you were born in Russia. Is that true?”
“Yes.” His deep voice takes on a note of amusement. “You can’t tell by the accent?”
“It’s very mild, so no. You could be from pretty much anywhere in Europe or the Middle East. In general, your English is excellent.” I’m speaking too fast from nervousness, so I make myself take a breath and slow down. “Did you learn it in school?”
“No, at my job.”
The job where he tracked down and interrogated supposed threats to Russia? I suppress a shudder and try not to think about those interrogation methods. Keep it light, I tell myself. Work up to the heavy stuff. In an upbeat tone, I say, “As an adult? That’s impressive. Usually, you have to learn a language as a child to be able to speak it as well as you do.”