Page 61 of The Way You Hurt Me

Oh. He's kissing me. With his lips. On mine. Dimitri Volkov is kissingme.

Then I get it, finally. I get what Ava was trying to tell me. What Dimitri himself was saying when he told me to just ask the right question.

He…likes me. Or at the very least, he wants me.

Of course, that makes zero fucking sense because I all but threw myself at him for months and months and…

And that was two years ago. Before?—

"Wait, wait," I say. "You're married."

I have to keep that fact very clear in my mind, which is difficult because ninety percent of my brain is still trying to process the fact that he kissed me, while my body is burning with desire, with electricity, with sheer need for this to keep going.

"I don't…I get it, Dimitri, you, and my sister, and Cam—I know what you're doing. I like what you're doing, But I don't want to be the side piece, the fun. I want to be important to someone."

I wouldn't survive being Dimitri's other woman. I may not be jealous at the idea of him fucking someone else, but being attached, and legally claimed by someone who isn't me? I can't do it. Because he has all of me.

"I have a business agreement, and if it's problematic to you, it can end. Today. Tomorrow, if my lawyer's off the clock. I'll sign the divorce papers, I'll sign our marriage certificate, I don't give a shit. Just kiss me."

Oh. Well, in that case.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and climb onto his lap, doing my best to tear his shirt off him.

"Sir, we've arrived."

We're in a basement garage, I think. Probably of his building. I can't bring myself to care.

"Shut up, Charles," he growls, his mouth on my mouth, my neck, my collarbone. There's far too much fabric between us, and I can't have that. "Just drive," Dimitri demands between kisses. "To the lab."

Fuck, I amdrenched. He's taking me with him. I thought he might leave me, cover me in bubble wrap, ignore my desire. He's taking me with him.

I press myself hard against him, feeling his length through our clothes—far too many clothes. I bring my hand to his belt, and he grasps it, lifting it over my head.

At first, I think he's going to deny me, so I pout, hard.

"You're not riding my cock, petal. Not until you've come at least twice."

His free hand yanks my blouse down, making buttons fly all over the place, exposing my bra.

"Once on my hand, once on my tongue," he whispers against my ear. "Then you can come on my cock."

Fuck.

He could make me explode just with words. But now he's unhooked my bra and brought his mouth to my exposed nipple, while his hand slides between my thighs, his fingers running circles around my engorged clit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I take forever to make myself come, but within seconds, I'm almost there, so very close. He plays me like I'm a familiar song, and he knows all the nuances, all the secrets. Two fingers find their way inside me, while his thumb keeps pressing, circling, tapping, and his clever tongue runs around the areola, then flicks my nipple.

I am almost embarrassed by how I scream. I am certainly mortified to feel myself flooding my thighs, his hands, his pants.

"Oh, isn't this fascinating," he grins against my skin. "I didn't know you were a squirter, Ruby Red."

"That…" I struggle to do words. I struggle to do breathing, too. Or human-ing for that matter. I am goo, putty, a completely substance-less thing in his hand. With great effort, I make myself focus. "That's new to me too."

"Now, I believe I promised you another orgasm. On my tongue."

I don't have the time to try to find the words to explain I cannot possibly come again, or do anything ever again, given the fact that I am boneless, because now my back's down on the leather seat, my legs over my head, and Dimitri's mouth is right. There.

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