Page 7 of Stricken

When I come to, I'm on top of him, my breathing is still labored and there is electricity running through every part of me. I realize I only lost a millisecond of time when the climax hit.

"Not bad at all, Hot Shot," a rough whisper reaches my ear and the sound of his voice sends ripples through me.

"I'll give it five out of ten," I reply with a quip of my own, unsure how I even joke at a time like this with another man's body pressed up to mine in a way that's criminal in some countries.

The stranger's teeth nip at my neck as I pull back slightly to look at him. His hair, damp and messy, is spread out across the pillow like a halo. A chuckle resonating in his throat, rumbles through him, vibrating against my chest as he cradles my head with both hands and holds me there. His eyes bore into mine. "Not going to complain though," he husks out.

The room is hazy with the afterglow of our shared orgasm, the air thick with heat and sweat and sex, and it's so potent—this feeling of being wanted, desired; even if it's only for one night.

"You want to stay the night?" I ask cautiously, knowing it's dangerous.

The stranger rolls us over, pinning me down gently but firmly on the bed with a wicked grin. "You sure about that, Hot Shot?" He claims my lips once more in a possessive kiss.

When he draws back, I murmur a reply, "You have a great cock. Would be a pity to let you go so soon, Romeo."

"Fine. You twisted my arm into this."

* * *

Pale light filters through the opening in the curtains when I crack my eyelids open. For a disorienting second, I don't know where I am. Then the warm body beside me shifts and it all comes rushing back. The meeting with Esteban in the lounge downstairs. The piercing blue eyes. The stranger offering to buy me a drink. Hands and mouths and skin on skin.

Fuck.

I realize I haven't slept this deep in ages. Maybe never.

I sit up gingerly and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, head throbbing in time with my pulse. I shouldn't have drunk that much. The stranger—no, not a stranger anymore, not after last night—is waking up too, and when I glance at him over my shoulder, he smirks up at me, stretching seductively on the bed. My first thought is to kiss him, to run my hands over that sculptured body, to feel the hard muscle beneath my palms once more. Sadly, the digital clock on the nightstand tells me I'm already late for my flight. There's no time.

As if reading my mind, the stranger gets up and picks up his boxers from the floor. Lean back muscles ripple under tanned skin as he slips them on. My mouth goes dry as I watch him dress, watch the flex of his arm as he puts on his gleaming cuff links, watch the long line of his throat as he knots a silk tie. He’s polished and put-together, no trace of the wild creature who writhed beneath me in the tangled sheets.

He turns to face me, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips while deft fingers adjust the watch on his wrist. "Morning, Hot Shot."

I grunt something unintelligible, dragging a hand down my face.

"I had fun," he says with a grin, walking across the room to grab his jacket from the couch. "And I wish I could stay a little longer but I have places to be and people to see. You know how it is."

I do know. The ticking clock, the responsibility. The constant vigilance, watching for the next knife in the back.

His eyes meet mine, dark with remembered heat, as he heads for the door. He pauses there, one hand on the knob, and looks back. Winks, a flash of white teeth. "Thanks for the great night."

The door clicks shut behind him and I'm alone.

I flop back on the pillows with a groan, hating the twinge of sudden loss in my chest. This is why I don't do sleepovers, don't let myself want more than a quickie.

CHAPTER1

NICO

Days later, his eyes still haunt me, icy gray and full of secrets.

I don't let my one-night stands get under my skin, but the handsome devil with the Russian accent was some of the best hand jobs I've gotten. And LA is known for its skilled boys.

Don't think back, Nicola.

Think forward.

That's what Father always said.

The rhythmic thudding of my feet on the treadmill echoing through the private gym of my Beverly Hills condo is a distraction that doesn't last long. The burn in my muscles and sweat beading on my brow as I push myself harder reminds me of him again, of what transpired in that hotel suit in Malibu.

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