by Dani Collins
For several racing heartbeats, he held motionless with incomprehension.
A strained whisper stirred the air near his ear. “I didn’t think it would hurt that much.”
Her words didn’t fully penetrate, but Aleksy instinctively tried to pull back.
Clair squeaked and clamped her legs on him. “Please don’t move.”
Understanding hit him in waves. This wasn’t a misjudged case of too much too soon. This was— She was—
“You’re a virgin?” He was amazed he found the word. And so loudly.
She flinched. Her hands slid to his ribs, and her tangled lashes trembled with uncertainty. “Not anymore?”
“I don’t do virgins,” he bit out, but he was locked indelibly inside one. How? His normally agile brain wanted answers, but sensations crowded his ability to think. She was tight and tense, silky and hot and vulnerable. He was livid, knew this was wrong, but couldn’t draw away. His body was shaking, intense sexual arousal riding his pulse, sending all the wrong signals when he was compelled to be still. This couldn’t be happening. He had to stop it.
“Please don’t ruin it,” she said faintly.
It? He was ruining her.
* * *
The sharp pain was subsiding, leaving a sting and a deep awareness of the hard length lodged inside her, hot and still.
He was furious. There was no hiding from that unpleasant reality, but Clair was more caught up in how her body was trying to accommodate his intrusion. Her internal muscles flexed. An answering pulse, surprisingly erotic, made her melt around him. He settled a fraction more deeply inside her.
Her breath hitched and so did his.
She let hers go slowly, unable to look at him. His harsh I don’t do virgins was still cutting her in two. She didn’t know what to do! Her skin was still sensitized and wanting to be stroked. His penetration transfixed her. It was incredibly intimate but wickedly persuasive. She felt as if she stood in the doorway to a new understanding and desperately wanted to grasp the concept.
While she could tell he wanted to exit stage right.
Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes. “Please—”
“Stop saying that,” he rasped, hands moving to cup her head. His thumbs drew circles at the corners of her eyes, rubbing the leaking dampness into her temples. “When you’re ready, we’ll finish this.”
He sounded gruff but almost tender. The kiss he touched to her lips was gentle. Brief but followed by one a little longer. A little more thorough.
She sighed in relief. He wasn’t giving up on her. As he took her mouth, she curled her arms around him, pulling him into her, wanting to feel all of him. When she tilted her pelvis, he slid home. There was a final sting, but—oh—such a sense of rightness. Too many sensations to pick apart and name. She was all feeling and he was part of it. All of it. She squirmed against him, filling her hands with him, seeking maximum contact while reveling in the fresh magic of being possessed by him.
He kissed her with ravenous generosity, exciting kisses that transmitted joyous signals through her, making her move against him.
Thick Russian words filled her ear as he slid his wet mouth down her neck, tucked his hand under her bottom, carefully withdrew and thrust.
It felt so perfect, so good. Clair threw back her head, a lusty groan tearing raggedly from her lips. She couldn’t speak, could only embrace this primitive state and encourage him with ancient signals, stretching and arching beneath him, moaning her pleasure.
Urgency built, quickening their rhythm. The sensations were so acute she wanted to scream. She needed more. “Please, Aleksy, please.”
With a growl, he thrust faster, offering what she craved, taking and giving, straining over her, driving her to a peak, holding her there, pushing her off…
She fell, but into flight. Breathless, soaring flight. Distantly aware of his guttural yell, she rose to skim the sun, where she burst into brilliant, ecstatic flames. It was the most delicious death until, like the sparks from a spent firecracker, she drifted in pieces back to earth.
* * *
Aleksy reeled as he left her. Dealing with the condom was his excuse, not that he voiced it, but he had to get away from her. He was spent, body twitching with exertion and coated in sweat, but he wanted her again. She was like Christmas dinner, when it didn’t matter that he’d already gorged himself. Greed for more consumed him.
He splashed cold water on his face, then glared in self-disgust at his reflection, his scar standing brilliant white against his flushed skin.
Incredible, mind-shattering sex that shouldn’t have happened at any pace. You’re going too fast. No wonder she’d been so shy about surrendering to passion. And when she had…
Please don’t ruin it. What was he supposed to have done? Left her frustrated and disappointed by her first experience with a man? Would that have salvaged something of the civilized gentleman in him?
As if there’d ever been anything civilized in him, he thought with bitter self-recrimination, old blades of guilt and abhorrence flashing between himself and his image. He was well aware of the primitive forces in him. He held them in check with his rigid standards, always. Shame and contempt filled him for dallying with a virgin. He’d stolen from a man he didn’t even know.
How dare she put him in this position?
He moved back to the bedroom to confront his mistake and found her sitting up, the sheet knotted in her fist against her collarbone leaving her pale shoulders bare.
She looked like a bride on her honeymoon, thoroughly tumbled, lips puffy and ripe, hair tousled, expression still retaining some vulnerable innocence while her new knowledge made her skim a hesitant, admiring look over his frame.
That look was a baited hook that caught in his gut. Lower even. The erection that hadn’t completely subsided pulsed with renewed life.
He hated the response he couldn’t control; he refused to be led by it, especially where she no doubt thought she could take him. Planting his feet hard on the floor, he crossed his arms and stood at his full height.
“I won’t marry you.” His cold warning grounded out the sexual electricity still crackling in the air.
Her shoulders flinched before she steadied them. “Did I ask you to?”
“It’s reasonable to assume you’re trolling for a proposal with this little gesture, especially ahead of the money transfer, but forget it. I’m not the marrying kind.” She wouldn’t have tried this if she knew what a monster he really was.
“What little gesture?” She lifted haughty eyebrows.
“A woman’s virginity belongs to her husband.” He’d never forgive himself for this. Fooling around with experienced women was one thing. They had the same unclouded views he did. Innocents had expectations he would never live up to. “I didn’t ask for your virginity, so don’t think you can guilt me into making restitution for it.”
She reddened with insult. Or anger. He didn’t let himself dwell on what she might be feeling so long as he was driving his point home.
“A woman’s virginity belongs to her husband?” she repeated through her teeth. “Welcome to the twenty-first century where a woman’s body belongs to her. It doesn’t look like you’re saving yourself for marriage.”
“It’s a good thing one of us knew what he was doing.” Although he hadn’t. She’d neglected to inform him of one very salient detail. She was craftier than he’d given her credit for, coldcocking him with that one.
“We all have to start somewhere. What good is waiting for a husband who hasn’t once shown up when I needed him? I’m stuck with taking care of myself, aren’t I?”
“And this is how you chose to do it? By throwing away your virginity for hard cash?” Precisely the type of woman he usually dealt with and yes, he supposed they had all started somewhere. He was still left wi
th a pall of disappointment in both of them.
Astonished hurt parted her lips.
Out of habit, he mercilessly sealed over the fissure her crushed expression threatened to make in his conscience, closing himself off to any emotional appeals. Best if she understood he had no heart, but then something in him stirred. Perhaps she really was romantic enough to believe this sort of thing led to a lifetime commitment. The weight of being unable to live up to that expectation settled heavily on his shoulders.
She surprised him by masking her hurt. As though shrugging into a coat, she pulled on an air of dignity. “I made a choice that was mine alone to make. I’m not the marrying kind either.”
He snorted. Innocents like her dreamed of a family. If his own family were alive, they’d expect better of him than the way he was behaving right now. Of course, if they were alive, he’d still be an innocent like her.
“You don’t know me,” she said with quiet assertion. “You don’t even want to. I’m only spoils of war to you. I trust your grudge is satisfied and you’ll leave me now?”
The cool, pithy words struck his abdominals like punches. That wasn’t what this was. Despite hating himself for not realizing sooner that he was her first, the basest male part of him was already anticipating tasting her shoulders and neck again, stroking the warm silk of her back and thighs, making her writhe against him until she was ready to take him into her. And it had nothing to do with revenge.
He didn’t want to leave her—which stunned him—but she had to be tender. He hadn’t been as gentle as he would have been if he’d known… if he’d known…
His skull threatened to split under the pressure of conflicting imperatives. He had to leave her. For now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CLAIR WOKE IN an unfamiliar place, mind blanking with alarm before her memory rushed back. She sat up, still in Aleksy’s bed, still naked and very much no longer a virgin. Anxiety quickly faded to relief as she saw she was alone. She couldn’t have dealt with him and her mental disarray. Stunned disbelief bounced off crazy elation and crashed into an inferno of embarrassment.
Hugging her knees, she tucked a hot face into them and tried to countenance how she’d let Aleksy do all that to her. She hadn’t grown up with a lot of affection; nor did she possess any long-denied, deep-seated needs for physical closeness.
Yet she’d reveled in Aleksy’s caresses, giving herself over to him without inhibition.
Her heart wrenched as she recalled that the singular experience had cost her his respect. What kind of throwback had such archaic views on virginity? His judgment and contempt had hurt, not that she should care what he thought, but a weak part of her did. She wanted to know he’d enjoyed their coming together as much as she had.
Physical satisfaction was secondary for him, she knew. He’d taken her to strike at Victor and he’d walked out right after, his interest in her gone with the same lightning speed he’d developed it. No one had ever wanted her for the long haul. It was silly to imagine that a man like him, who could have anybody, would be any different.
The door creaked, startling her.
He caught her unprepared for the impact he had on her. He was still wearing the crushed pullover and snug jeans from last night, but he wore confidence like a visible aura so radiant she needed sunglasses. His hair was damp, the short cut combed uncompromisingly to the side. She knew how those soft strands smelled. How they felt between her fingers. Against her breasts.
His gaze locked with hers as though he read the memories she tried to repress. She died a little at being incapable of locking him out, nipples hardening with remembrance of his mouth, loins pooling with excitement for him.
It was distressing to react this strongly, to relive these sensations without him even touching her. It was a massive invasion of privacy. Against her will, her mind zeroed in on that safe moment when they’d been unequivocally linked. He’d been a lover then. She’d felt cherished, not bare and self-conscious like now. Everything in her yearned toward that memory like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun.
But that man was gone. This was the man with the grudge. To him she was a pawn on a chessboard to be tipped over and taken with ice-cold deliberation. And he’d done it.
This was the get up and get out moment, she supposed, her pulse racing.
“Hungry?” He sounded ironic, his deep voice abrading her taut nerves.
Was he taunting her for skipping dinner in favor of sating herself with him? It was cruel. She dug into her deepest reserves of composure, the way she’d done when the school bullies had taunted her.
“I could eat.” She lifted her chin and kept her gaze steady, ignoring that she was on fire inside. Other women were capable of relegating sex to something as mundane as chatting over coffee. She needed to be exactly that unaffected. She needed to get this awkward morning after finished and get out of here. “Why? Do you not know how to boil your own egg? You need me to do it?”
His eyebrows elevated a fraction at her pert challenge. His golden eyes looked deeply set into hollows darkened by a sleepless night. She was so startled by the thought that this powerful man might have lost sleep over her, she let it go as if it were hot.
The impression dissipated as he said with casual arrogance, “I pay the housekeeper to cook—or in this case deliver pastries.”
“Oh. I would have liked to walk to the patisserie.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his expression, followed by a purse of his mouth that made her bite her lip. He didn’t want to stroll hand in hand down the Champs-Elysées and she hadn’t meant to sound as if she was longing for romance either.
“I’ve never been to Paris. I’d like to visit a patisserie for fresh croissants at least once in my life,” she defended, embarrassment stinging her cheeks. “But that’s fine. I’ll be out in a moment.” She shifted her feet to the edge of the bed, signaling she needed privacy to rise and dress.
He didn’t move.
Because there were no secrets from him behind this sheet. Perhaps he had sent his housekeeper out and come to wake her for a different reason. Her heart tripped and her fragile poise slipped. She swallowed, mind casting with indecision. She knew she shouldn’t want to sleep with him again, but she did. Weak longing stole over her even as she searched his expression for his intention.
He gave nothing away as the silence grew loaded. Finally he entered the room, coming around the bed. She tensed, but he passed her by, stepping into the bathroom long enough to reach for something off the back of the door. When he returned, he draped a pewter-colored robe over the foot of the bed. “Take your time.”
He left and she let her breath out in a whoosh, staring at the closed door, wondering why she felt so forlorn. In the space of twenty-four hours the man had completely taken over her world, which was intolerable. She didn’t need to be completed. She was already whole. Aleksy might have tapped through her inner walls last night, but she had an infinite capacity for shoring herself up against the world. He’d simply caught her in a moment of weakness. Showered and dressed, she’d be completely unaffected.
She had to be.
* * *
Aleksy was not used to sexual denial. If he wanted a woman, he found one. When he had one, he had one. Waiting for Clair in the lounge, knowing she was running a soapy cloth over her nectarine-scented skin, was excruciating.
The proximity of her lissome body had burned in him all night as he paced the dark lounge. Taking her should have iced his vindictive cake, allowing him to discard her and move on, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how exquisite she’d been. He’d thought he only wanted to mark his victory over his enemy, but she wasn’t Van Eych’s. She belonged to him, only him.
It was one more twist that caught him unexpectedly. He’d planned to be in London indefinitely as he drew the noose ever tighter around Van Eych�
�s neck, putting him in a cell while stripping him of his stolen riches, but going to London had turned into nothing more than a formality because Victor had died. Aleksy’s appetite for steering the takeover was gone. He could leave it to his team and go back to Russia where his own interests had been neglected far too long.
Given Clair’s inexperience, he should sever their association. The deepest part of him knew that, but the rest of him rejected the idea. What would be the point in acting gallant now? Her virginity was gone. She’d given it up as a survival tactic in the face of losing her job and home. If she was going to sell herself, it might as well be to him.
It was a rationalization he grasped with surprising desperation, which disturbed him. For two decades his entire life had revolved around one thing: retribution. Taking Clair was supposed to be a facet of that, but instead she’d been an escape from it.
The stark realization unsettled him, agitating him further when he realized he wanted that escape again and again. He told himself it was timing and circumstance, that he would have found extra significance in any woman he’d bedded right now, but he didn’t want any woman. He wanted Clair.
So he would keep her as long as it took to satiate this inexplicable want, he decided.
His resolve took a hit, however, when she appeared in a filmy white sundress a few minutes later. Her disturbing sense of purity made his heart lurch. It was not unlike the modesty she’d shown in not being able to reveal herself by leaving the bed this morning. She withheld her thoughts behind a mask, but her blond hair was a golden veil and her minimal makeup revealed her natural beauty, fresh-faced and ingenuous.
If this was going to work, she had to fit the mold.
“I’ll book you into a salon today,” he pronounced with the swift call to action that had made his meteoric success possible. It would also fill her day so her nearness wouldn’t tempt him beyond bearing. Women always expected a new wardrobe anyway.
Clair touched her hair, her composed expression denting with confusion. “I had a trim a few weeks ago.”