Alexei leaned on his elbows and slid his hands over my breasts. My nipples were still achingly hard, stroking like damp pebbles against his palms. He squeezed gently. “Sovershennyye grudi,” he told me. Something about my breasts, I guessed. The unfamiliar shapes of the words didn’t matter—what mattered was the lust I could hear in them. “Ya khochu , chtoby lizat' ikh chasami.” He kept thrusting as he said it. Something about what he wanted to do to my breasts? “Izat' ikh, a zatem trakhnut' ikh,” he told me, his eyes gleaming. Yes, definitely something he wanted to do to my breasts.
I nodded wildly.
He sped up and the pleasure started to thrash and slam around inside me like a living thing, desperate for release. I wanted to grab him, to claw at his shoulders and urge him to go even faster, but all I could do was jerk my wrists uselessly against the belt. I had to take things at his speed and that loss of control, weirdly, felt incredible. It felt right, in some indefinable way, like something I’d been missing in my life.
He was pressed tight against me now. With each thrust, the whole length of his sweat-slick body slid against mine, caressing every part of me from my knees to my chest. My breasts were lifted and exquisitely stroked by the solid slabs of his pecs, the nipples scraping along them, then pushed down again as he moved out of me. The hard muscle at the base of his cock was grinding on my clit each time he filled me. I was trembling, close to my peak. Sex had never been like this before. Nothing had ever been like this before. I felt so close to him, even though we were playing this twisted game, even though he had me tied up...maybe because he had me tied up.
Maybe I’d needed someone to take control and maybe he’d needed to lose it, for once.
He sped up again and I went crazy, wrapping my legs around him and pressing my cheek hard against his—the closest I could get to folding him into my arms, since my wrists were tied. I could tell he was getting close, that gorgeous face set hard as he strained to hold back—
And then suddenly he pulled himself from me, grabbed me by the waist and turned me over onto my stomach. The belt that tied my wrists to the bedstead twisted, giving me even less slack. I landed panting, my breasts squashed under me, and craned around to see what he was doing.
He was grabbing one of the cylindrical bolster pillows from the head of the bed. A second later, he shoved it under my hips, raising them up. My ass thrust up towards him, my back arched.
His knees knocked my legs apart. He bent low over me, his mouth to my ear. Everything had happened so fast, I was reeling. “Ya sobirayus' k poshel na khuy, kak eto,” he told me. He brushed a lock of hair away from my ear and the rawness of the lust in his voice sent a tremor through me. “Szadi.”
I didn’t need to understand to know that he was telling me what he was about to do. I nodded, frantic with need. Then gasped as he started to enter me.
“God, I love the feel of you,” he hissed in my ear. “You’re so—”
“S—Say it in Russian!” I blurted. Then I reddened. “I—I like it when you say it in Russian.”
I glanced in the mirror and saw him smile.
“Vy tak krepko i goryachaya,” he told me as he sank into me. It was so much better in Russian—the knowledge that it was darkly filthy but with the mystery of exactly what he was saying. The unfamiliar words, together with that accent, were like glowing chunks of molten rock dropping into my soul, heating me up from within. The pillow he’d put my hips on was firm, almost hard, and I started to grind myself against it.
He gasped and went deeper. God, it felt different like this—he could go deeper and yet I felt even tighter around him. I checked the mirror again and the sight of him sliding into me from behind burned itself into my mind forever. I couldn’t look away.
His body came to rest against mine, his balls nestled close to my clit. He covered me completely, his hands stroking my bound arms, his legs bracing mine apart and his torso pressed up against me all the way from ass to shoulder. “You are mine,” he whispered in my ear, and again there was that ferocious edge of lust, the parts of himself he’d been holding back all this time. “You are my printsessa and my shlyukha, my boginya and my igrushka.”
I squirmed under him. I had no idea what those things were—although one of them had sounded like princess—but I wanted to be all of them.
He started to thrust and, immediately, I felt myself rocketing towards my climax. The tight friction of it, the feel of his hard-as-rock body against mine—it was just too much for me to hold on for very long. Then he shoved his hands beneath me and cupped my breasts, rubbing my nipples with his thumbs, and the pleasure lashed at my brain. “Yes!” I called out.
His thrusts grew faster, harder, hammering into me, and I twisted and writhed under him, jerking on the belt that bound my wrists, utterly his, soaring upward and upward until—
I shook and pushed back against him, wanting every part of him inside me, and felt myself clench and tremble around him. My head went back, eyes searching the heavens, and then he was leaning over me and his mouth was coming down on mine, kissing me as I felt the sudden bloom of heat through the condom that told me he was coming, too. I could feel every contraction of his muscled ass as he pumped into me. At the same time, his tongue was sliding into my mouth, taking possession of me there, too, as I pressed my body to his and panted my way through my climax.
When we finished, he climbed off me with exaggerated care and turned me onto my back. His eyes were full of concern as he untied my wrists, the brutal lust gone...for now. “Did I hurt you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Did I shock you?” I asked in a small voice.
He blinked at me.
“Wanting to be tied up. And the talking. I mean, I liked it when you called me those names.”
“Did you know what they meant?”
“No.”
“Would you like to?”
I squirmed. “Maybe. I sort of like the mystery. And I think I got the sentiment. And I liked it.”
He shook his head. “Why would I be shocked?” Then he frowned. “Most American women aren’t into that?”
“No.” Then I thought about it. I didn’t have many close friends I could talk to about sex. “Actually, I’m not sure.” Lilywhite had said some stuff about her cowboy and ropes….
Alexei shook his head. “I know one other American woman who’s with a Russian man. Luka’s Arianna. And she likes it rough.”
I gaped at him, horrified. “You can’t—don’t tell me that! I shouldn’t know that!”
He shook his head sadly. “It’s not like you’ll ever meet her, now. Or any of those people.”
I felt a pang of regret—God, I really had taken his whole life away from him. “How do you even know what she likes in bed? Did Luka say something?” I couldn’t imagine a Bratva boss discussing his sex life with anyone.
Alexei shook his head. “I’ve been one of Luka’s bodyguards a few times, when he’s visited the US and brought her with him. Sometimes, I have the room next to theirs.” He grinned. “I have a great story. Once, I heard them—”
I held up my hand. “Stop! Even if I never meet them. That’s private.”
He sighed good-naturedly. “As you wish.” Then he sobered up and rubbed my wrist. “So I didn’t hurt you?”
“No. And I didn’t shock you?”
“No.” He took my face between his hands. “Gabriella, you’re exactly what I dreamed you’d be. And all the things I didn’t dare to dream you’d be.”
A hot throb went through me and I reached for him. “Maybe you could tell me a little of that story,” I murmured.
He rolled over onto his back, pulling me on top of him, and we didn’t get to sleep until dawn. For those handful of hours, everything was perfect.
Neither of us even remotely suspected what the morning would bring.
Gabriella
We slept in and took a long, luxurious shower together before we even thought about getting dressed. But eventually, reluctantly, we decided it was
time.
To my delight, I discovered that a hotel will move mountains to make you happy when you’re spending over a thousand dollars a night on a suite. When I asked if they could send someone to buy me some clothes, the response wasn’t a shocked, “What?!” but a courteous, “What sort of thing did you have in mind and will you require shoes?”
Yes, I told them, clutching Konstantin’s poker winnings. Yes, I would definitely require shoes.
We ordered a room service breakfast and fed each other bites of pancakes, maple syrup and strawberries while we waited. It was Alexei’s first experience of pancakes and it was a little like watching a bear taste honey. Before long, he dispensed with me feeding him and devoured the whole plateful, and we had to order more.
The concierge sent up a selection of clothes for me to pick from. I went with a pair of black jeans—that fit me so perfectly I wanted to know where they’d been all my life— and a red angora sweater that was high-necked, but clingy enough that Alexei immediately declared I had to keep it. They sent up a couple of pairs of heels, but I ignored them as soon as I saw the black calfskin knee boots.
When I was all shopped out, we flopped down on the bed to think. Our situation was worse than ever: now Konstantin’s people were after us as well as Nikolai’s, and we knew that Nikolai had the Russian security forces on his side. Clearly, he was planning something big, but we had no idea what and no clue how to find his hired killer, the mysterious Seventeen.
“I’m going upstairs,” said Alexei eventually. “There’s a roof terrace.”
I thought of all that open space and my stomach twisted. The Dread had receded a lot since the junkyard, but the idea of the whole city laid out around me like a toy town was too much. “Go ahead,” I told him weakly. “I’ll stay here.”
When he’d gone, I put on the jeans, sweater and knee boots. The boots, in particular, made me feel better—for all their soft leather and expensive price tag, they looked like badass boots: boots you could kick ass in. If only I had some idea of how to kick ass.
I sighed. I needed to do something to help. I didn’t want to be dead weight. Maybe I could figure out what Nikolai was planning. I still had the new laptop and my phone—I could do some careful hacking, maybe talk to Lilywhite and Yolanda...and maybe it was time for some baby steps, now that the Dread was less of a problem. I might not be able to handle the roof terrace with Alexei, but the hotel had a coffee shop in the lobby, not so very different to the one back at my old apartment block. With the help of the kick-ass boots, I figured I could just about brave that.
I shoved my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and was just looking for something to write a note to Alexei on when there was a knock at the door.
Shit.
I’d learned enough, by now, not to open it. I flattened myself against the wall and closed my eyes, waiting for bullets to tear through the wood—
But nothing happened.
I gingerly checked the spyhole. One of the hotel’s waiters, standing behind an empty room service trolley. I let out my breath and unlocked the door. My time with Alexei had left me a paranoid wreck.
The waiter quietly closed the door behind him and began to collect the breakfast plates, while I dug in my purse for some bills to tip him with. “Thank you,” I said, as he passed behind me. “Hey, do you have a pen? I need to write a note.”
“Yes, of course.”
His accent took me by surprise. Russian. I spun around just in time to see him take something from his pocket. Something cylindrical, but not a pen.
“We’ll talk soon,” said Seventeen. And pushed the needle into my neck.
Alexei
I wanted to worry. I wanted to be angry. I even wanted to be afraid, and fear is usually a killer’s enemy.
I wanted to feel any of those things, because I understood them. I didn’t understand this.
I’d thought that, when I woke up, all of our problems would be back and everything we’d done the night before would seem like a mistake—that one of us would have regrets and that there’d be a fight or another attempt by one of us to push the other away. But it hadn’t happened. I’d woken having slept better than I ever had in my life and then there’d been another of those fantastic, luxurious showers, elevated to pure heaven by having Gabriella’s naked body rubbing up against me. And pancakes. And the sight of Gabriella, happy as a child on Christmas morning, trying on her new clothes, and that sweater—
I was....happy.
And it felt too good to let anyone take it away from me, ever.
Could I really have this life? Gabriella had started to make me believe I could be something more than a killer. I wanted it to be true....
But it didn’t change our situation. I sighed, my breath coming out as long wisps of white vapor in the freezing air. All around me, New York was laid out like a map. Somewhere down here, Konstantin’s people and Nikolai’s people were hunting us, drawing quietly closer....
And then another solution swam into my head, dark and seductive.
Maybe we didn’t have to figure out what Nikolai was up to. I’d thought all along that that was our only chance, that unless we could catch him in the act and restore my reputation, we’d never get out alive. But I hadn’t known how smart and resourceful Gabriella was. She’d saved my life. Working together, maybe we could disappear. South America, maybe, somewhere like Colombia or Venezuela.
But doing that would mean turning my back on everything I’d ever known—Luka, the Bratva, even Russia itself. I’d never be able to go back there, nor even back to New York.
But it would be worth it. For her.
I marched back inside and down the stairs, heading for our room. We’d leave today. By that evening, we could be somewhere far away. We’d change our names and hunker down in some jungle hideaway where no one would ever find us—
I unlocked the door and pushed it open, already excitedly saying her name.
But Gabriella was gone.
Gabriella
I was sitting on something hard and smooth and I was hunched up tight: my knees were drawn up to my chest, my arms were wrapped around them and my head had been pushed down. Something was in my mouth and my head throbbed and spun from whatever drug he’d given me.
I tried to uncurl myself but immediately there was pain, biting into my wrists. I’d been bound with something hard and it was cutting into me.
Voices. A couple discussing which restaurant to eat at for lunch. Then the sickening sensation of the floor dropping out from under me. I was in an elevator. I wanted to call out for help but my tongue wouldn’t move and I didn’t seem to have even the strength to move air in my lungs.
The ding of the elevator as it reached a new floor. More voices, all around me, as people got on. Everyone sounded happy, relaxed. It made no sense. Why don’t they help me? I was sitting right next to them, bound and gagged. Can’t they see me?
But no one could.
Alexei
I moved slowly at first, saying her name again. Was it a joke? Was she hiding in the bathroom, waiting to pounce on me? Then, when I found the room was empty, the panic slowly grew.
Could she have gone out? She’d have left a note...and then I saw her laptop on the counter and I knew she’d been taken. Gabriella would never go anywhere without her laptop.
All of those things I’d been wishing I could feel up on the roof came back. Worry. Anger. Fear. They had her. God knows what they’d do to her.
Think! I’d been up on the roof terrace for no more than ten minutes. Whoever took her might still be in the hotel. I could catch them, if I moved fast.
I felt my old army training take over. They’d taught us to track enemies, to look for clues. What did I see? What did I not see?
The door was intact. Either he’d had a key, or she’d let him in. Either way, he must be disguised as someone who worked at the hotel.
The breakfast plates were missing. A room service waiter! I’d seen them wheeling their trolleys arou
nd on my way up to the roof. The trolleys had a lower section covered by a white cloth—just big enough to conceal a person, if that person was tied up small.
Jesus, he was wheeling her right through the fucking hotel!
I ran for the stairs and sprinted all the way down to the ground floor. He’d need to get her outside, to transfer her to a car or van. I hit the buttons for all the elevators and stood there panting as I waited for them to arrive. Too late, I realized I hadn’t brought a gun. Well, fuck it. The mood I was in, I’d tear the guy’s head clean off.
The first door opened. Tourists.
The second. Two women, chatting.
The third. A whole group of tourists and, at the back, a room service waiter with his trolley. Breakfast plates on top, a white cloth covering the bottom. He started to wheel it past me, eyes down—
I grabbed him by the collar of his starched white shirt and hurled him against the wall. A woman screamed. I ripped the white cloth off the trolley—
More dirty dishes.
Shit! I whirled around. A few of the elevators were still on their way down. I could wait for them...or maybe I’d already missed her. Where would the guy take her? Out the front?
No. The back. Through the kitchens and the service entrance.
I raced into the kitchen, ignoring the angry shouts of the chefs. Shit! There were at least six waiters wheeling trolleys around and they all looked the same. And I couldn’t pick out the guy who’d taken her—I had no idea what he looked like. I tried to narrow it down by the breakfast plates on top, looking for ours, but I couldn’t see them. Eggs—we hadn’t had eggs. Waffles—we hadn’t had waffles. Where was she?!
I searched and searched, eventually resorting to tipping over every trolley I could find. But I already knew I’d made a mistake. I could feel her slipping away.
Kissing My Killer Page 21
