Page 61 of Devil In A Suit

“Trust me,” I say, and kiss her, slow and deep, coaxing her into the moment. Her hands grip my shoulders, and I feel her start to respond, her mouth opening and her body melting into mine as she finally lets go.

The heat between us ignites, and I pull her fully onto my lap, feeling her settle against me. She hesitates for no more than a heartbeat, then her hands reach for my shirt, her fingers tugging, desperate.

“Ivan…” she whispers, and I can feel the urgency in her voice too. It’s enough to drive me over the edge.

I grab her T-shirt, yanking it off her shoulders. It lands on the seat beside us.

I pause for a moment to take in the sight of her. I squeeze her breasts gently, feeling the weight of them.. Under her lacy bra, her nipples harden, and I circle my thumbs around them, watching her eyes flutter shut as a shiver runs through her. She’s so responsive, so open, and it drives me wild. It’s as if every touch, every movement, brings her closer to me, and I can’t help but want more.

I lean down, kissing the swell of her breast, my lips grazing her skin as I trail kisses, savoring the way she trembles beneath me. I take my time, dragging it out, wanting to memorize every reaction, every soft sound that escapes her lips. I pull her bra cup down and suck a nipple into my mouth, feeling it tighten against my tongue. She gasps, her back arching, pressing herself closer.

My hands roam her body, gripping her waist, pulling her in. I can feel the urgency in the way she moves. Her hips shift against me. I pull back slightly and my eyes lock on hers.There’s something intense there, something that matches the fire burning in me.

She whispers my name again, and I feel her hands slide down to my shirt, tugging it up. Her touch is eager, it makes my pulse quicken. I watch her as she pulls my shirt tails out. She grinds against me, her jeans tight and rough against the fabric of my pants. I can barely hold back. My fingers trail up her back, and I reach for the clasp of her bra, undoing it. It snaps away, and I watch, mesmerized, as she pulls it off, tossing it aside.

She’s bare now, her chest rising and falling with her quickened breaths, and I run my hands over her breasts again, feeling the softness, the way they fit perfectly in my hands. Her nipples pebble under my thumbs, and I take one into my mouth, sucking slowly, feeling her hands clutch at my shoulders. She moans, the sound vibrating through me, and I can’t get enough.

I trail my kisses lower, down her belly, and she shivers as her hands slide into my hair.

“You make me lose my mind,” she breathes huskily.

I lift my gaze to hers, feeling the truth in her words. It’s the same for me—I’m lost in her. Nothing else matters.

She moves against me, and I guide her, lifting her just enough so I can reach between us, unzipping her jeans. I slide them down her hips, feeling the way she shifts to help me, her breath catching as the cool air hits her bare skin. I run my hand up her thigh, savoring the feel of her, every curve, every shiver.

“Tell me you want this,” I whisper, my voice low, needing to hear it, needing her to say it.

“I want it,” she says. There was no hesitation.

So we fuck. We fuck like animals. So hard, the car vibrates as it snakes through the city.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

LARA

The sun is high in the sky and the air is exceptionally warm but not oppressive in the conservatory. Muriel teaches me a surprising method of growing apples and oranges. Remove the two ends of the fruit, and rub garlic on the exposed part. Cut one-quarter of a medium-sized tomato into a little plastic cup, fill it with water, and stand the fruit on top of the water. And voila it’s done. She says I can expect roots on my plants in seven to ten days.

Muriel moves away to speak to one of the maids, and I stand back and look at my row of potted plants with satisfaction. I have potted an orange, an apple, a bougainvillea cutting, and a green and chili pepper.

The scent of earth and flowers fills my senses as I set about sticking the labels on the pots. I’m glad for the shade from the wide-brimmed hat and the long sleeves of the gardener's attire Muriel insisted I wear. I know it’s to prevent sunburn, but today it feels more like armor, a way to hide. I need to hide because every time I think back to last night, my body tingles and my mind races.

I pat the soil, feeling the coolness beneath my fingertips. Then I gently water my plants. This is exactly what I need—something to keep me busy and distract me from the memory of Ivan’s hands on me and the velvety sound of his voice in the dark.

Muriel is not back and I gaze curiously at an exotic plant with big fleshy leaves, normally only found in South American jungles. Muriel says it only flowers once a year and only at night. By day the flower has faded. She says she has seen the flower before and it is worth staying up for.

My thoughts wander. Flashes of last night play in my mind. I can’t forget the way he looked at me as if I was the object of his entire attention. One of the maids comes into the conservatory with a tray of freshly squeezed pineapple juice and a tall glass filled with ice cubes. When I thank her, she nods with her eyes cast down and leaves quickly.

It’s hard to ignore the feeling that the staff are gossiping about me. Not that I can blame them. I certainly would if I were them. My presence here must be very odd. How many of them know or have heard about what happened in the car last night? A part of me is mortified, but the other part... well, it doesn’t give a damn. Let them think or say what they want. They don’t know what it’s like to feel the irresistible and seductive pull of Ivan Ivanovich.

After last night, Ivan and I parted without a word. I think both of us are in a bit of shock and need space to process whatever this is between us. It’s clear that we hate each other’s guts and yet we can keep our hands off each other.

I couldn’t sleep for ages, my mind replaying how complete and absolute my surrender was. He could have done anything he wanted with me and I wouldn’t have objected. When I finally drifted off, it was a restless, disturbed sleep. I dreamed I was getting married and my mother and I were going shopping forbridal dresses. She looked like she did in her thirties and my dad was there too. It was a good, happy dream. When I woke up this morning, tangled in the silky sheets, I found myself staring at the empty space beside me and feeling strangely alone.

But once I was dressed and making my way through the house, I realized Ivan was still around. He was clearly on his way out but had stopped to talk to one of his staff. I stopped dead in my tracks. For a few moments, our eyes met in the mirror. My breath caught, and I felt a rush of emotions—desire, confusion, and something powerful left over from last night. I almost turned around and fled back to my room, needing to escape before he saw how much that single glance affected me. But he turned away and headed out of the door.

This is why I’m hiding out here in the garden today, just in case he comes back early to prepare for the gala or something. I hear quick footsteps on the stone floor and my heart lurches into my throat. When I swing my head around, I see Greta striding toward me, her face pinched and annoyed, her heels clicking sharply. She’s a stark contrast to the garden’s tranquility, her presence breaking the quiet peace. I don’t even have the energy to be snappy with her.

“Miss Fitzpatrick, I’ve been calling you for hours. What on earth are you doing?” she snaps, her voice slicing through the calm.

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