Assassins in Love (4 page)

Her mouth found him. He tasted as good here as he had tasted when they kissed, maybe better, and she sucked, trying to get more of him, and that was when his hands cupped her face, tugging just a little, trying to move her away, because he was getting harder, and she knew he was going to come if she kept doing this and she didn’t care.

But he did or his brain did or something did, because even as he arched into her mouth, his fingers kept pleading
stop, let’s slow down
, he didn’t stop, and she didn’t want to slow down.

Her mouth was busy, but her hands weren’t. She finally managed to pull off those pants, and the moment she was free, she moved as fast as she could, head up like he wanted. She was wet and she had made him wet and she slid onto him as if they were made for each other, and they pushed into each other.

He filled her, and she hadn’t realized she had been empty. It felt so good. So damn good.

She bounced twice, and his eyelashes fluttered, a flush working its way down his chest almost to his navel, and there was no more control—or so she thought until suddenly he grabbed her, flipped her, and thrust, hard fast perfect,
perfect
, she kept muttering
perfect
, and then he kissed her and as he did, she pulsed, pulsed and pulsed and shattered—

And he came with her, holding her tight. She could feel him, every bit of him—she had never been so attune to her body in her life—and they arched into each other, and for a moment, just the briefest of moments, they had achieve something she had never thought possible, something explosive.

Something perfect.

Something right.

It had been a long, spectacular night.

Or at least it had seemed that way when she was drunk.

But the next morning she woke up sober, sprawled naked and sore on the bed of a man she didn’t know, in a room that had to cost as much as she earned in an entire year.

She remembered the bed—how could anyone forget this bed? It was the softest, warmest, most luxurious bed she had ever been in, with smooth covers, sheets that didn’t scratch, and a mattress (or something mattressy) that cradled her body.

The room itself looked familiar only in outline. She remembered the carpet because it surprised her (and scratched her bare back at one point), but she hadn’t noticed that it was the palest of blues. She remembered the windows because she saw herself reflected naked in them, and she hadn’t cared at the time.

Now she cared, and fortunately, the windows overlooked only the blackness of space. Unless a ship had pulled up right next to these windows, no one had seen her and—what the hell was his name? Jeez. She had done things with him she had never done with another human being,
willingly
done them (and she still tingled remembering them)—and she had no idea who he was.

He wasn’t in bed next to her. He was standing near the bathroom door, knee bent, one bare foot against the wall, and a smile on his face. He wore brown pants that clung to his magnificent legs, a half-buttoned, billowy white shirt, showing those abs that rippled all the way down.

With his clothes on, he looked slight, which was deceptive. He wasn’t slight at all. He wasn’t slight
anywhere
, particularly in the places (place) it counted.

At least he was as handsome as she remembered. Those high cheekbones, that perfect nose, those startling blue eyes. And the white-blond hair? It was his natural color. She had found that natural color nested between his legs, and she had found that unbelievably erotic too.

She still did, which disturbed her. Because as crummy as her head felt, she shouldn’t find anything erotic. She had clearly had too much to drink last night. He made things worse by holding up a glass of something foamy, which reminded her of the beer and made her stomach lurch.

“Misha,” he said.

“What?” The word came out mushy. God, how much had she had to drink? Her mouth tasted like dirty socks.

“My name,” he said. “It’s Misha. I figured you earned that much.”

Earned it. She didn’t like the idea of earned, as if she’d paid for it with sex. A lot of sex. Damn. How many times had they—

“And yes, we met,” he said, “but I doubt you remember.”

It was as if they were having a conversation she didn’t remember either. Her head hurt, and she brought a hand to her eyes. They felt gummy and sore. Everything was sore. And she had bruises on her wrist. Had he done that?

“Here,” he said and handed her the foamy liquid. “Drink it fast and try not to taste it.”

She glanced at him through her splayed fingers. He looked serious, and younger than she remembered. Hadn’t she thought him midthirties? His body was midthirties—flat abdomen, visible muscles, and at least half a dozen scars—but his face was maybe fifteen, at least at the moment. He had shadows under his eyes, and his mouth turned downward, as if a frown were his natural expression.

The sadness caught her—if indeed it was sadness and not something else. That, and the scars. She had been so involved (
involved
, what a euphemism) that she hadn’t even noticed. How could she have missed all those scars?

She had no idea who he was. Misha? She didn’t remember a Misha, even though he said they had met before.

She shouldn’t take the drink from him. God knew what was in it. But if he were going to hurt her, he would have done it last night, while she slept.

Jeez, she’d trusted him more than anyone in recent memory. She had slept with him, actually slept, her guard all the way down. He could have done anything to her. He could have killed her or kidnapped her (although, in all fairness, where could he have taken her on this ship?) or given her to the authorities. He could have had his way with her—in ways she would never have agreed to, not in the way that she had.

She sat up, the sheet falling away. Her skin had finger marks, bruises, love bites, scratches. She remembered each one, so she hadn’t been that drunk. Just the thought of his teeth grazing the tender skin above her breast made her shiver.

He leaned forward, handing her the glass as if he didn’t want their fingers to touch. A bit of the stuff overflowed onto her hand, warm and foamy. Her stomach lurched again, so she took the glass from him and downed the stuff.

It tasted like carbonated bile with a touch of dog hair, but she managed to swallow it all without getting sick.

Her stomach settled the minute the crap touched it, and slowly her headache eased.

“What was that?” she asked.

“A couple of alcohol antidotes mixed with an emergency scrubber that I always carry,” he said. “Works, even if it tastes like day-old vomit.”

She grimaced, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She no longer felt hungover, although she did feel wrung out.

“What happened last night?” she asked.

He smiled and looked pointedly at her breasts. “If you don’t remember—”

“I mean…” she said, not wanting him to continue. She wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed or not. She certainly hadn’t been herself. At least, any kind of self she recognized. She’d been insatiable.

She’d never been insatiable in her entire life.

She cleared her throat. “What were you doing? Following me?”

“Of course I was following you,” he said.

She sat rigidly, her fingers still cupped around the glass. Her heart rate increased.

She hadn’t even seen him follow her. She hadn’t noticed him at all on this ship, and given her physical response to him last night (this morning too, dammit), she should have noticed him from the moment she had come on board.

Her mouth had gone dry.

He hovered close to her. He had bite marks, too, and scratches and bruises, as well as the mark of her teeth on the very pale skin of his neck.

She had given as good as she had gotten, at least.

“Who trained you?” he asked.

Whatever she had expected him to ask, it hadn’t been that. She licked her bottom lip, and noted with some satisfaction, that his eyes tracked the movement.

“Why do you care?” she asked. She’d been responding to his question on training, but she could have been asking about herself. Why had he cared about her?

His gaze dropped to her naked breasts. He visibly swallowed, then moved back to the wall.

Suddenly she understood the distance. He still wanted to touch her.

“Your training,” he said, his voice flat.

She would have thought him completely in control if it weren’t for his eyes. They moved toward her breasts, then her stomach, and her hips, buried under the covers. Then, as if he had to use the force of his own will, his gaze moved up to meet hers.

His expression stayed flat, as if he didn’t care.

But she was paid to observe people, and she could see him. Of course, he could see her. Her nipples were hard, and she couldn’t blame the temperature in the room. It was balmy in here, much warmer than her room down on K Deck had ever been.

She needed to get out of here. He was making her nervous, and she had no idea what he was about.

So she gave him her sultriest smile. “My training?” She stroked her breasts as if she had just noticed they were bare. Her fingers lingered on her nipples, then she shifted slightly, so the covers fell away from her hips and pooled between her legs.

His gaze dropped, and she had to work to keep her smile from growing.

Then his gaze rose again.

“Not that kind of training,” he said in the same flat voice.

“Oh?” she asked, sliding out of bed. She crossed the distance between them in just a few seconds, and as she did, she slid her hand down the front of his pants. He was hard and hot, just like he had been the night before. “My mistake.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, as if he was trying to hold her back. He was trembling. For one moment, he didn’t move, and then he pulled her toward him.

The kiss was rough. She leaned into it, letting her breasts rub against his naked chest. His hands still held her shoulders, fingers tightening. She slid her thumb along his penis and he groaned against her mouth.

Finally he pushed her back just enough to separate their mouths. She kept moving her thumb, though, and his cheeks flushed.

“No,” he said, his voice as rough as that kiss. “No. I’ll die if I don’t eat something.”

“Ah,” she said, leaning into him. “
Mais
c’est la petite mort
.”

“No,” he said. “I mean a real death.”

Then his flush grew darker. He seemed surprised at himself, as if he hadn’t expected to reveal his knowledge of yet another language.

Or maybe he was just surprised at the way his voice shook.

She continued to move her thumb. His whole body vibrated. She could feel it. With her free hand, she unbuckled him, and then she slid onto him.

He half closed his eyes, made a sound of surrender, and grabbed her buttocks, lifting her so that he could thrust. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him as close as she could, and kissed him, moving her mouth to the rhythm of their bodies, surprising herself. She had thought she was done with this—too sore, too tired, too achy.

And not drunk.

But he felt good, the movement perfect (that word again) and she tilted her head back, let him devour her neck, let him slide in and out of her, until his legs buckled. He sank to the floor, bringing her with him, and as he did, she could feel him pulsating inside her.

His eyes had rolled back for just a moment, then they opened all the way, and she saw unguarded surprise. And a vulnerability she hadn’t expected. And maybe just a bit of fear.

“See?” she said. “Just a little death.”

“It wasn’t little,” he said. “It wasn’t little at all.”

What the hell was the matter with him? He had never reacted to a woman like this, not once in his life. Oh, he’d slept with them, and he’d enjoyed them, but he never got so aroused with just a touch, or if he was honest, just a look.

He had to get away from her.

Mikael Yurinovich Orlinski, Misha to his friends, put his hands on her shoulders and held her in place as he separated himself from her. Slipping out of her warm body felt like a loss, and he lowered his eyelids for just a moment, so that she would not see the emotion.

He couldn’t hide it from her, any more than he could hide her effect on him. He wanted to. He had never lost control like this, not once in his adult life.

He stood, knees still shaking from their inability to hold him a few minutes ago, and he looked down on her.

Her cheeks were flushed, her long hair mussed, her lips swollen because of him. She looked like she’d been thoroughly fucked, which she had, only it hadn’t felt like fucking.

It had felt more personal than that.

His heart raced. He was still wearing his shirt, but nothing else. He didn’t reach for his pants—that would be an admission of a loss of control. Instead, he grabbed the clothes package from the bedside table. He thrust the package toward her, and was momentarily gratified to see her confusion.