Page 85 of City Of Thieves
“Then light a match and burn it yourself,” he snarls, tossing my own challenge back at me.
Releasing his arm, I catch Sal’s glare, watching as his chest rises and falls like the tide before a storm. With a vicious smile, I lift my Chianti to my mouth, savoring the taste of cherries, spice, and revenge.
Take a breath, motherfucker.
Take two.
Once Anastasia is back in her mother’s arms, they’ll be his last.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tatiana
The rain started fallingthe moment my father handed me the letter, lashing out at the penthouse’s windows like angry fists, while streaking the glass and obscuring the horizon.
It didn’t let up as we sat and talked and cried and mourned until well after two a.m. It was like my family’s history was pouring down on the present, and we had little choice but to face it together.
It’s three a.m. by the time my driver, Andrew, pulls up outside my apartment block in The East Village. Surface water has turned roads and sidewalks into sheets of reflected light and neon. There are major storm warnings out for the whole East Coast, but mine already hit around three hours ago…
I know why Konstantin targeted me.
I know how deep the Russian’s hate goes.
“Would you like an umbrella, Miss Sanders?” Andrew asks, frowning at his windshield.
“No, thanks. I’ll make a run for it.” Checking my phone, I try Renzo one more time, but it goes straight to voicemail.
“As you wish, ma’am.”
Climbing out of the car, I sprint the twenty feet to the front door, clutching the letter and my phone to my chest as the rest of me gets soaked through.
I collect the spare key from the doorman and let myself into my apartment, leaving a trail of water droplets behind me. Closing the door, I toss my phone and the envelope on the table in the hallway, keeping the rest of my place in darkness as I pad through to the master bedroom.
I’m stripping off my wet jumpsuit and lingerie as I go. I’m thinking about Anastasia, and how her hair changes color when it catches the light. Then, I think about a man who’s just as damaged as I am, wondering how his meeting went and praying he doesn’t have any new bullet holes when he finally shows up again.
As I enter the en suite, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m a sodden mess, with my long dark hair hanging around my face like rats’ tails and the last of my mascara streaking my cheeks. I note the yellowing bruises across my ribcage from Konstantin’spatsan,and a third on my left hip.I trail my fingers until they’re outlining the surgical scar across my stomach and then lower still to a part of me he corrupts so well…
Tracing a line straight through the center of my pussy, I imagine it’s his tongue that’s probing me. Parting my lips, I push a finger inside, wincing at the slight burn from his rough fucking earlier. My breath hitches when I remember how hard he came, and then again when I slide my finger out, knowing it’s coated in him still, just as much as me.
I’ve never made myself come before, but the pulse in my clit is relentless. Closing my eyes, I grip the edge of the sink as my fingers move in ever-decreasing circles to ease the ache, lighting brushing over the hood when my body demands an extra stab of pleasure.
Oh God...
I'm using the memory of his touch as a guide—circling faster like he did, pressing harder like he did—chasing down my release with his ghost and making myself so wet my fingers keep slipping. The rush is so intense, I’m crying out in relief when my pussy starts throbbing.
Holy shit...
A minute later, I’m stepping into the shower and letting the hot water wash away the worst parts of London, my cheeks flushing again when I remember the good.
Could I ever love a man who kills for sport?
Could I shape my brave new world around his violence?
Wrapping my hair in a towel, I’m pulling on my white silk negligée when I see a dark shadow out of the corner of my eye. Before I have a chance to scream, a rough palm is clamping over my mouth, his powerful scent hitting me straight between my legs. My adrenaline spikes as he grinds his erection into the small of my back. His clothes are still damp from the rain.
“What did I tell you about showering,dolcezza?” he growls. “When I give you an order, I expect it to be followed.” As he jerks me toward the bed, the towel slips from my hair, and his palm connects with my ass—the sharp slap ringing out across the bedroom.
My outrage is muffled by his palm as he does it again… and again. Making my body squirm and sing.
