Page 23 of Inked Adonis

Even when it ends, he doesn’t let me go. Not quite. We stay close, tangled, the lines blurred where one of us starts and the other one begins.

Then, almost reluctantly, he kisses the side of my neck and my shoulder as he slides out of me. More heat runs down my legs. The last of the hot water cleans away the evidence of what we did.

Quietly, Samuil lathers shampoo into my hair and spreads body wash over my skin. He rinses it off. Neither of us says a word.

There’s only one towel in the cabinet above the toilet, so we share it. He dries me off first, then himself, then helps me step into my bathrobe before he dresses again in his damp undershirt and trousers.

Still, nobody speaks.

My legs are still shaking as I walk him back through my bedroom and my living room to the door. When we get there, I pause and sink my teeth into my lip, unsure what to say.

Please don’t gois on the tip of my tongue, right next toDon’t you dare beg him to stay.I know I shouldn’t say the first thing. This isn’t the kind of moment for that. He’s not the kind of man for that.

I hold the door open for him, waiting for him to say something, anything, that will assure me that this isn’t the end after weeks’ worth of build-up.

Samuil stops at the threshold. “Next time I text you—” His voice is soft but commanding. “—you will respond.”

He’s gone before he even hears me say, “Okay.”

8

SAMUIL

“What in the name ofThe Little Mermaidhappened to you?”

Myles gawks at me, his eyes roaming up and down my ruined Brioni suit and then over my shoulder, following the trail of muddy footprints streaking across my mansion’s Italian marble floors.

My housekeeper is going to weep when she sees the mess. Good thing I pay her enough to afford therapy.

I toss my waterlogged phone at him. “I’m gonna need you to do a full reboot.”

Then I keep walking, forcing Myles to follow me. We stride through the atrium and into the west-facing living room, steadfastly ignoring the steely-eyed gazes of my ancestors glaring at us from their oil portraits on the walls. Those motherfuckers always give me the creeps.

In the living room, though, floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the sculpted gardens below. A bit less jarring of a sight than scowling old Russian aristocrats. On a normal day, I findthe view peaceful. Even my black, shriveled soul doesn’t despise the sight of life blooming on the rose bushes.

But today is very fucking far from “normal.”

It was a strange day even before that dog hit me like a fucking Chevy with the brakes cut. I’d been on my way home from a meeting that left me unsettled in a way I rarely feel.

Angelo Boyko… there isn’t a damn thing I trust about the bastard, up to and including his very name. There are three types of men who try to take down the Bratva: idiots, federal agents, and the dead.

Boyko might be all three. His ‘chance’ meeting with me this morning reeked of the federal government sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong. But, undercover fed or not, his offer was interesting: help him destroy the Andropovs, and certain…activities…of mine would stay buried.

Tempting offer for a man in my position. I’m no fool—I cover my tracks, leave no evidence, and when I bury a body, it stays there until it rots away to nothingness. But in my line of business, you can never say no to a good insurance policy.

The question is: what will this one cost me?

Myles tips my phone sideways and murky water dribbles from the charging port. “You decide to go for a fully-clothed swim in Lake Michigan or something?”

I snort. “It wasn’t ‘or something.’”

He pauses, face suddenly stricken. “Are you screwing with me right now?”

“It was against my will,” I explain, stripping off my jacket and tossing it into a corner like the six-thousand-dollar rag it now is. “I was pushed.”

“I fuckin’ told you, man!” he roars immediately. “I knew it! I said it. I said it a million goddamn times and you did not goddamn listen. You shouldn’t be messing around with these shady-ass federal spooks, brother. Even if they claim they’re taking down the Andropovs. Sometimes, the enemy of your enemy is just your enemy.”

I peel off my shirt, and a scent hits me—lake water mixed with something sweeter. Nova’s shampoo. My cock twitches, remembering how she tasted, how she felt wrapped around me less than an hour ago. My lips still tingle with her juices, my ears with the heat of her thighs wrapped around my head. The marks I left on her will be darkening to purple by now.

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