I ran my thumb down the smooth column to show her what I wanted. She inhaled, and the next time she took me in her mouth, she slid down, managing to take every fucking inch.
“Fuck, kotyonok,” I growled. “Your sweet mouth is going to make me come.”
She pulled back to suck in a ragged breath. Her eyes watered, tears pouring down her cheeks. My heart pounded with force, but I softly held her hair back from her face, my voice a deep rasp.
“Then the only place left for me to come in is your ass.”
She hummed a breathy noise and rubbed her thighs together before licking up my shaft, then taking my cock in her mouth all the way again. I hissed through my teeth. She gagged, her throat constricted around me, and it was game over. The heat inside me erupted so violently my ears rang as I pulled back slightly to come in her mouth and not down her throat, unsure of how she would feel about that.
She looked up at me, her eyes watering little streaks down her cheeks, and swallowed. I made a rough sound through my teeth, every cell in me on fire with satisfaction and . . . something else. She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand, her hair an unruly mess of curls reaching past her waist. The sight turned me inside out. Like someone had shoved a hand into my chest and ripped out my non-beating heart.
Fuck.
I grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her lips to mine, kissing her deeply, sliding my tongue into her mouth. Her fingers found purchase in my hair, which sent a shudder through me. I swallowed her sigh. That little puff of air of hers settled like an anchor in my empty chest.
Pulling back, I brushed some wetness from her cheeks. “These are the only tears I like.”
Her eyes held mine for a moment, but where transparency usually lay was that absent place I despised. I knew it wasn’t distress that caused her to put up a wall, but something else entirely.
I brushed another tear from her cheek and said, “Now sit on my face.”
Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t do that to get something in return. This . . . was just for you.”
I smiled. She was cute. My perfect little martyr. But she had something wrong. She squealed when I grabbed her thighs and pulled her to straddle my face.
“This is for me,” I said with a growl, pulling her thong to the side and sucking her clit into my mouth.
“Oh, God,” she moaned.
“You’re wet, kotyonok,” I scolded. “Is all of this from just sucking me off?”
“Da.”
I wanted to smile. I liked hearing Russian on her lips more than I should. Spreading her open with my thumbs, I gave her cunt little licks and sucks that made her shake.
“Fuck,” she breathed.
I chuckled roughly. “I think I’m a bad influence on you.”
Her hand found purchase in my hair, and she grinded down on my face, yelping when I nipped where her hip bone met her inner thigh for being impatient. She sighed when I laved the sore spot with my tongue. Then I moved back to her pussy, sucking each lip into my mouth, releasing them with a light graze of teeth. Her forehead fell to rest on the couch arm with a moan.
“Ronan, I’m going to come.”
“Christ, woman,” I rasped. “I haven’t even started the ABCs.”
“I don’t know what those are, but I do know I don’t want a lesson on the alphabet right now.”
I fought a laugh. “We’ll start with A.”
She groaned in frustration. “Ronan, no—” The rest was cut off by a raspy moan that would wake the dead. And probably Yulia. Even Mila’s carnal noises sounded innocent. Sexy and feminine and perfect. I’d never get them out of my head.
I drew a B on her clit with my tongue before switching to C. Her thighs trembled while she mumbled incoherent moans. She was so close, I sucked her clit hard, and she shattered. I slid my fingers inside her just to feel the hot pulses, only pulling free after they stopped. She panted coming down from her high.
A sudden knock on the door caused Mila to fall off the couch. I couldn’t hold in a chuckle. I knew this gentleman thing wasn’t for me. Seeing Kirill in the doorway, I pulled my briefs over my cock. The doctor stood with his briefcase in hand and a massive look of disappointment.
Apparently, he was with WebMD on this one.
“He made me do it!” Mila blurted from her spot on the floor.
“U neye ovulyatsiya,” I explained. “Ona prakticheski iznasilovala menya.” She’s ovulating. She practically raped me.
Kirill’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “I ty ne mog ot ne’ye otbit’sa.” And you couldn’t fend her off, I see.
I smiled. “Ona sil’neye, chem kazhetsya.” She is stronger than she looks.
Mila got to her feet and aimed a glare at me. “Ovulating? You’re the one who’s always ovulating if you ask me.”
I laughed. She must have not understood the “rape” part of the conversation, or she’d have a lot more to say. My amusement nose-dived when I remembered she was wearing nothing but my thin T-shirt.
My gaze hardened. “Go put on some fucking pants, Mila.”
She ignored me. Straight-up ignored me. If she thought the gunshot wound had made me so passive I wouldn’t carry her ass up those stairs, she was wrong. But her words momentarily paused me.
“Will he be okay?” she asked.
The doctor understood the English but unfortunately couldn’t translate his very superfluous response. “Yesli odin vystrel v ruku ub’yet yego, ya razvedus’ s lyubimoy zhenoy i trakhnu izvestnuyu shlyukhu s vich. Potom pereyedu v sibir’ i budu vyrashchivat’ repu, poka ne umru.”
I laughed loudly.
Mila frowned. “Was that a no?”
“He said if one shot in the arm kills me, he’ll divorce his loving wife and fuck a famous whore with HIV. Then he’ll move to Siberia and farm turnips until he dies.”
She pulled her lip between her teeth to hide a smile. “He thinks you’re immortal too.”
I wanted to return the smile but didn’t. I’d escaped a lot of near-deaths. When I was younger, I thought even death didn’t want me. Now, I thought fighting my way out of the freezing Moskva had awarded me an iron-clad resilience to live.
“Nyet, kotyonok. He’s just seen me much worse than this.”
She swallowed as her eyes slid down my chest, like she was seeing the scars for the first time. Some of the marks were long and thin from contraband blades behind bars. A few of them were round from gunshots—one in my side, one in my back, one now in my arm, and another an inch away from my heart, which was the scar Mila drew her fingers across. The touch made my skin crawl but was warm nonetheless.
“Who?” she asked shakily.
I knew she was asking who shot me—who almost killed me. But something inside me rebelled at telling her the truth. Mila wanted to live in a shiny bubble. A bubble her papa could be redeemed in. A bubble where his character looked a little dark but shiny nonetheless.
She might learn a lot about how he’d done business when he was dead. That he kidnapped girls younger than her and sent them into the sex industry. Her bubble was going to be popped someday, but I couldn’t be the one to do it.
I smiled and lied, “No one you know.”
Her fingers slipped off my chest, leaving a weird sense of absence behind. She stepped back to give room for Kirill to set up a blood bag. I gave him a silent warning to not put any pain-relief drugs in my IV. I hated the way they made me feel. At first, he’d complained, but now, he was used to it and merely nodded.
Mila hovered as if there was something she could do to help. I’d never been the source of someone’s concern before her. I didn’t need it. Here I was, four gunshots in and still alive. Yet Mila was on a roll trying to string some Russian together to ask Kirill about my condition. I suddenly hated her concern. I hated it because I liked it. And the latter wasn’t conducive in any way. Once she was gone, karma would leave me pining for a woman’s love over a bowl of soggy Fruit Loops.
I needed to stop this Hallmark avalanche now.
“We both got off, Mila,” I said harshly. “I’m not sure what you’re waiting around here for.”
She took a step back at my words, her complexion paling. And now I hated myself. What was a little self-loathing added to the mix?
“Okay,” she murmured. “I guess I’ll go then.”
Mila hesitated for a second before turning to leave as if it was the last thing she wanted. I didn’t think it was what I wanted either. She gave me a fleeting glance in the doorway that tightened my chest, and then she was gone.
I wondered if that was the exact scene that would play out in less than two days’ time—a glimpse of her yellow hair and a brief meeting of eyes before a gnawing absence set in.
I fell into bed over two hours later in my bloody pants and boots. Kirill told me the wound would heal fine after shoving some antibiotics in my hand. He was pretty confident the bullet had missed bone, only tearing through muscle. How narcissistic I got once again. I’d normally be enjoying two fingers of vodka and a cigar after this day, though now all I could see was the heartbroken look on Mila’s face.
The need to go to her room tore at me, but I quelled the impulse. I’d already apologized to her once; I didn’t have another in me. Not to mention, it was futile to do so now, thirty hours before I murdered her papa.
I was sure she wouldn’t welcome me anyway, and I’d never begged for a thing in my life—not even as a kid living on the streets. I simply took what I wanted. Unfortunately, Mila wasn’t a handful of rubles or a loaf of bread. She just had to have feelings and some kind of voodoo power over me that wouldn’t let me hurt her—apparently, even emotionally.
I’d never beg.
But this was the first time I’d wanted to.
I fell asleep to the thought of seeing Mila on the streets. I simply picked her up and carried her home to my Russian fortress, where I hand-fed her pomegranate seeds so she’d never be able to leave.
It was slight movement on the mattress that woke me. Again, I knew who it was. The pressure in my chest released when Mila slid into bed beside me and rested an arm on my chest and her head on my shoulder.
My perfect little martyr, lying in her father’s executioner’s arms. I had a job to do, and she was the chess piece needed to win.
The problem was . . . I didn’t think I could ever play her.