Page 77 of Nothing More

He was behind her again, now, one hand braced beside hers on the glass, the other gripping and angling her hips to his liking. She was up on her toes, off-balance, sweat-slick hands sliding on the door, and the firm clasp of his fingers along her hipbone felt like all that held her up. Small details, lost amidst the burn and stretch of his cock as he filled her again, and again, and again, steady, metronomic thrusts that hit that deep, nerve-sparking spot inside her on every pass. Her vision had gone glittery and black-edged, her breath choppy.

She was so swamped in mounting pleasure that her arms had grown weak, and so she gave up; collapsed forward, glass cold against her cheek, her breasts. She shivered and shoved her hips back to meet his next thrust, and the next.

He said something in Russian, low and coaxing, and leaned back, still buried inside her. He put his arms around her and pulled her back to lie against his chest, her head tipped back on his shoulder. He kneaded her breasts in both hands, holding her to him that way, and thrust up in small movements, not drawing out each time, but rolling his hips against her backside, a stirring grind rather than an outright fucking.

The change in angle and pace left her stomach leaping, her sex clenching. “God,” she murmured. “Oh, God, I need…”

And he knew. Of course he did, because he was bloody psychic when it came to this.

They ended up on the rug at the foot of her bed, Raven on her knees, him draped across her back and stroking her clit in a counterrhythm to the way his cock worked her in short, sharp thrusts that were going to leave her with carpet burn on her elbows.

She shattered when she came, vision, hearing, and all sensation save the hard, pulsing throb of orgasm fading away to nothing. She closed her eyes, pressed her face to the rug, and rode out the bright peaks of sensation, overworked nerves sparking with pain as he chased his own release, and finally found it with a low, punched-out sigh, buried deep in the clutch of her body.

Then it was the aftermath: a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom, her robe draped around her shoulders, a glass of water pressed into one of her hands, and a lit cigarette the other. He put the crystal tray on the rug between their hips, and they sat there, leaning against the upholstered footboard of the bed, satiated and basking in the quiet as their pulses slowed.

For several long, luxurious minutes, Raven felt contented; absolutely peaceful, verging on happy. His steady, quiet presence beside her was comforting, as was the scent of smoke, the familiar warmth of her robe, the knowledge that, here in the wee hours, the flat quiet around them, she wasn’t alone. Fear couldn’t intrude, here, in the minutes that Toly stretched his legs out across the rug, wiggled his toes, and rubbed a cramp out of one pale thigh. His cock lay soft and still gleaming faintly on the other; he scratched through the dark hair above it, and up his stomach; scrubbed an absent hand through his hair, and down his neck, cigarette clenched between his teeth.

He was unspeakably desirable, in that moment. She wanted to slide the ashtray aside and snuggle up against his side; feel his arm around her, and smell her perfume and lipstick on his throat.

Instead, she tapped the ash off her cigarette and said, mildly, “You don’t seem to like Greg much.”

His posture didn’t shift. His hand followed its natural path down his chest and came to rest, relaxed, on his thigh again, fingertips digging at the cramp again. But his lashes flickered sharply, and she could tell that tension had stolen over him, a self-contained, inner layer, beneath his skin, well-hidden. She could tell that he meant for his voice to sound bored, but she heard an edge of caution. “I thought you didn’t either.” He tongued his lip ring, and the pause filled with a weight he doubtless hadn’t wanted to bleed out into the room. It was there, though, thick and plain as the smoke from their cigarettes. “You seemed chummy tonight, though.”

She resisted the urge to grin. He’d die before admitting it, but she’d read it in him earlier, and read it again now, too: he was jealous. Hecared– at least a little. It warmed her more than any of Greg’s many compliments had. Men had hurled flattery at her her whole life. There was something about being fucked nearly unconscious, her shoulder bitten almost bloody from behind, that turned her giddy inside in a way that being told she was lovely and smart and talented couldn’t.

“It was very chivalrous of him to take us shopping,” she said, and made a show of examining her manicure. Sue her for playing the coquette; it was payback for theagesshe would have to spend blotting concealer over the fresh layer of marks on her neck. “You should see the tree: it’s absolutely massive. It rained needleseverywhereon the way up. And we bought loads of ornaments. Cass insisted on putting on music while we decorated the bloody thing. We were like something out of Hallmark – nauseating, to be honest.”

When she turned her head, she was startled to find his scowl two shades darker than she’d anticipated.

He drew a knee up and draped his arm over it, cigarette smoldering from fingers that looked lax, but which twitched, once. “Was he here? In the apartment?”

“Greg?”

“Yes.”

What would he do, she wondered, if she said yes? Put her over his knee?

She suppressed a pleasant shiver, tapped ash, and told the truth. “No. He offered, but we ditched him at Target.”

The flat line of Toly’s compressed lips relaxed a fraction. He nodded, and took a drag.

“It might be new, and it might not be permanent, it might even be crawling with Lean Dogs, but this is my home. I’m not going to let strangers into it.”

His shoulders dropped a half-inch. When he blinked, his gaze was easier, afterward. “He wants you,” he said, voice sounding hoarse.

She arched a single brow. “Do you think I didn’t notice that? It’s not new, darling: I’ve been wanted by loads of people over the years. It doesn’t mean they get to have me.”

Another flicker of his lashes ondarling. She didn’t realize what she’d said until after; it had just slipped out…but had felt natural.

“You need to be careful,” he said, though he slumped back against the footboard, seemingly at ease, now. “Don’t encourage him. He could be wrapped up in all of this.”

She snorted. “Does he look like Russian mafia to you?” When he didn’t answer save an unhappy twitch of his mouth, she said, “I am being careful. I had plenty of security, and we were in my car, in a very public place. If he is involved – and that’s a very big if – the worst thing I can do now is act as if I suspect him of anything. He has to think he’s clever and getting away with it, or else he’ll escalate the threats.”

His brows jumped in the tiniest of concessions, then drew together again. “He was too pushy asking about me. He washostile.”

“Well, to quote my sister, ‘duh.’”

He frowned.

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