Page 62 of A Devious Arrangement

I adjust her until she’s balanced, then grip her ass in both hands, lifting and dropping her on my shaft, setting my rhythm to chase her moans. She moans when I hit the spot against her inner wall, and I know I’ve found what she likes. I pound it over and over again and watch as she starts to come apart in my arms.

Her breasts bounce with her movements, her peaked nipples on display, and I catch one, sucking it into my mouth.

“So good.” Stasia’s hips swivel, and she moans low in her throat as her nails pierce the skin of my shoulders. She’s leaving her marks on me. I’m going to have them tattooed permanently.

The pain turns to lust, and my brain melts as a burning ache tightens my balls and explodes out my tip, filling her with my cum. My release feels like it goes on forever, quaking down my spine. My face is buried in the crook of her neck when I finally come back to my senses.

I shift back, careful not to drop her. Stasia looks dazed as she stares up at me. She’s a fucking vision, and she’s all mine.

I can’t help my goofy smile. “I think I’m in love with you, Anastasia Volkov.”

Chapter 30

Anastasia

“I thinkI’m in love with you.”

How can Bash blurt that out so easily? My pulse raced as I tried to decipher if he meant his words or was just playing around, and in the end, I decided it’s too risky to trust him.

I ignore the sharp twist behind my ribs and finish slipping on the dress he stashed for me. When Bash said he took care of everything, I thought that was just the breaking-and-entering portion.

I didn’t imagine it included the penthouse in the same hotel as tonight’s event. The room, if I can even call it that, is the size of a large apartment.

And then there’s the dress. A rich blood red that should clash with my hair but somehow turns it even more fiery. The fabric is thick and hangs smoothly down my frame. There’s a slit that runs up my left leg, revealing several inches too much of my near porcelain-white skin. Somehow, Bash has turned me into a femme fatale instead of the society princess.

I trace the thin strap at my collarbone and trail it down my side. The dress is a love letter to my body, molding every curve like it was carefully crafted for me, even though I know I didn’t sit for measurements.

My cheeks flush hot. It speaks of a very intimate knowledge.

I examine myself in the hotel bathroom mirror. My lips are a deep pink, swollen from earlier. There’s no chance they’re going down, so thank God lip filler isinright now. Bruises line the side of my neck, and I pull my hair over my shoulder in a Hail Mary attempt to hide the marks that bastard left. Next time, I’ll bite him where everyone can see, and we’ll see how he likes it.

I huff out a breath. Hell, he’d probably love that.

I’ve given up pretending I’m not interested in him. At least for the duration of whatever it is we have, I’m going to let myself enjoy it.

I just need to be careful that I don’t get confused and mix up his playful attentiveness with something more.

No doubt, countless women have broken their hearts over that man, and I refuse to be one of them.

Letting out a deep breath, I open the bathroom door, only to freeze. Bash is standing in the middle of the room, changed into a black tuxedo with a matching waistcoat.

His hair’s still ruffled from my fingers, as though he didn’t bother to try to tame it.

He’s watching me with hungry eyes, taking in every inch of my body in the gown he picked out.

“You are stunning.” He practically breathes the words, like he doesn’t know he’s saying them out loud. His devious smile is missing as he takes me in, replaced with something deeper.

I swallow hard, my throat thick as his gaze lands heavy on me. Memories of his touch as he fucked me in that closet have tingles running down my spine.

I cough. “You look good too.”

And he does look good. Dashing doesn’t begin to describe him. He looks like he was born to wear the suit, his wide chest stretching the jacket across his shoulders. He could be in some kind of billionaire top hotties magazine.

I’m undecided whether I should be happy that he’s my date or pissed that I don’t get to keep him.

The reminder that this could be all pretend is like being doused with ice-cold water, and I clear my throat.

“I’m not really feeling well. I think I’m going to head home,” I lie blatantly, but I can’t tell him that I need space to get myself in check. What am I supposed to say—hey, you’re too hot in that outfit, I have to go before I fall in love with you?

---