Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Being held down like this, taken with his body and eyes, has me responding to him in no time. Despite his leisurely movement, my pleasure builds fast. I’m drowning in need underneath his muscular weight. He’s testing his power over me, how hard he can make my body bow, how long he can hold me on the edge before I lose all sense of time and place. All the while, he scrutinizes me with those jewel-green eyes, reveling in my reaction, reverently observing every gasp and moan.
When I reach my limit, that dark, dangerous place where hearts are stolen and minds are lost, he rewards me with relief. Rolling his hips, he applies just the right amount of pressure on my clit to allow me an escape from the maddening prison of need he’s trapped me in. He unlocks the chains and permits my heart to take flight on a peak of pleasure. The ecstasy is so severe I’m barely cognizant of my name. How easily he takes my reason.
He lets me finish completely before he comes, filling my body with his seed. He pumps until he’s empty, and then thrusts some more. He moves with the feverish determination of a man trying to spill his mark and possession into me. It’s no different from every other time we’ve fucked, and yet, it’s not the same. As he rests his forehead against mine, squeezing my wrists, we’re completely aligned. The last disharmonious note has fallen in tune. Our coupling is perfect. Complete. Our breaths pant the same melody, our hearts hammering the same erratic beat. We’re two instruments resonating in harmony. It feels like…
Love.
The thought is sweet. Bitter. Sobering. Only yesterday, I worried that he’d never reciprocate my feelings, but now, my fear is the opposite. He shouldn’t love me. He can’t. It’s better if my love remains one-sided. I love him too much to hurt him like that. But our hearts have already merged, and the man staring down at me isn’t the man who abducted me in a dark alley.
He’s the man who loves me.
I reel at the realization. The thought knocks my heart askew in my chest. I’m still battling to come to grips with the uninvited insight when he pulls out, leaving a wet puddle between my legs and a disconcerting coldness in my soul. I’m trying to reconcile that frosty distance with the heat of the knowledge burning in my mind, but then he presses our mouths together in a kiss that consumes me from the inside out. A barrier drifts between us even as that kiss forges our bodies and souls closer together. It’s a kiss like no other, a kiss that spells love and goodbye in the same breath. It’s push and pull, a force that has equal power to fuse or wreck.
I’m hovering in that confusing space when he tears his lips from mine to press a chaste kiss on my cheek.
“We better have a shower,” he says.
Throwing back the covers, he takes my hand to lead me to the bathroom, but the distance between us grows until the atmosphere becomes stiff like cardboard, and my throat throbs with a knot of unshed tears.
When Yan gets out of the shower and hands me a towel, I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “Is everything all right?”
He meets my gaze squarely as he dries off. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’re different.”
“Now’s not the time for amateur psychoanalysis,” he says sharply.
The rebuke is like the prick of a needle in my heart. After what we’ve just shared, it’s bewildering, but I school my features. “You’re right. We should focus on the job.”
He pulls me to him and kisses the top of my head. “Get dressed. I’ll prepare breakfast.”
Pushing the nagging worry aside, I focus on the tasks that take priority. While the men get ready, I attach the body pads, apply a bronzing lotion, and work on my cheekbone fillers and makeup while the tanning lotion dries. I secure a hairnet with pins and carefully fit the wig. Then I get dressed. The dangling earrings, bangles, and cluster ring add the finishing touches.
When I’m done, I study my full-length reflection in the mirror. The result is good. Great, actually. No one will be able to tell I’m not the real Natasha Petrova, not even from close-up. Not unless one’s met her in person, and Dimitrov has never met her.
Yan and Ilya are in the lounge when I step out of the room, dressed in their transport company overalls and caps. Ilya gives me an approving nod. Yan runs his gaze over me, but there’s no acknowledgement in his eyes. No approbation or disapproval. They’re just… blank.
“Yan?” I walk over and try to take his hand, but he pulls away.
He tilts his head toward the table that’s laid with cold cuts, cheese, toast, and orange juice. “Better eat something. You’ll need your strength.”