Page 43 of City Of Thieves
He devours me like he hasn’t eaten in a decade, growling out all the filthy things he wants to do to my pussy, my face, my ass… How he wants to paint every inch of my creamy skin with his cum.
He’s so cruel, too. He knows exactly when I’m on the edge because he pulls back, suspending me in a delicious limbo, until I’m rocking into him in desperation, fucking his face as hard as his fingers and mouth are fucking me as we chase down my release together.
Just when I think his sadism can’t blur more lines, his fingers slip from my pussy, and he starts massaging my back passage. A beat later, I’m hit by such a violent wave of pleasure that I’m screaming out his name as a prayer and a curse, and he’s grabbing my hips to stop me from falling.
Resting my head back against the tiles, the water still pouring down on us, it feels like I’m drowning in the mess he’s made of me.
He’s still on his knees, his hands still planted to my hips, my soaking-wet dress pushed higher, allowing him to trail soft kisses across my lower stomach. He’s silent too, absorbing the scene as much as I am, as I loosen my grip on his hair.
When I finally glance down, he’s tracing a finger along the smooth scar that a Russian surgeon made after thirty-six hours of labor...
The scar that is all I have left of my daughter.
Chapter Twelve
Tatiana
There’sno point trying to hide it. He’s seen my biggest secret now in all its faded silver glory, but instead of a Renzo-style interrogation, he rises to his feet, his dark gaze burning with something dangerously close to compassion.
Reaching around to switch off the shower, he takes my face between his hands and kisses me again, more gently this time. His tongue doesn’t delve inside my mouth like it did before. Instead, it hovers at the seams, as if the discovery of my scar is cooling his desire and forcing his base nature into retreat.
I open my mouth to encourage him, but he doesn’t take advantage.
I lean my body into him, but he doesn’t press back.
Suddenly, the silence in the shower cubicle is more deafening than the chaos of the last twenty minutes, knocking me off balance even more.
“Turn around,” he orders, breaking away, and for once, I do as he asks, gasping when I feel his fingers at the zipper of my dress, and then again when he’s pushing the wet silk from my shoulders.
He drops his mouth to the naked dip between my shoulder blades, and I bite my lower lip to stifle a moan. A moment later, his touch is being replaced by a fluffy white hotel towel that he proceeds to wrap around me.
Scooping me up into his arms again, he carries me through the room to his bed and places me on top of the covers.
“Sleep,” he commands, stepping back to peel his wet shirt from his shoulders and take another one from an open suitcase nearby. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. First, I need to see a man about a dead Russian.”
I open my mouth to protest, but my eyes are heavy with the weight of everything that’s happened this evening. Without his touch, my body is hurting again from all the bruises Konstantin’spatsangave me.
My last image of him as I slip into the darkness is of a golden chest more sculptured than Michelangelo’s David, but crisscrossed with his own fading silver scars… The stories behind them, no doubt, as ugly as mine.
* * *
I wakethe next day to a confident knock on his hotel room door and aching bones.
Sometime in the night, he must have tucked me into bed because I’m lying underneath a mountain of sheets and duvets and wearing a black T-shirt that smells strongly of him.
The knock sounds again, and Renzo emerges from the bathroom, still shirtless but wearing a dry pair of jeans and the remnants of white shaving cream covering half his jaw.
Flicking me a look to keep quiet, he grabs his gun from the nightstand and stands to one side of the doorframe, his finger held tight on the trigger.
“Who is it?” he rumbles.
“Who do you think, fuckface?” comes a British accent, slanted with a cockney swagger.
Renzo tuts in annoyance. “Killian…” He swings the door open to reveal a tall man with scruffy red hair and an easy grin.
“Bought you a couple of croissants,” he says, chucking a bag at him. “The food in this hotel is surprisingly shit.”
“Thanks,” he says, lowering his gun.
