Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  “No.” Bitter laughter poisons the air. “You just thought it.”

  Silence stretches between us. Neither one of us moves, speaks, or breathes for that matter.

  “Why, Dasha?” I draw pained breaths. “Why do you stay with him?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” she counters.

  I could think of a million reasons. One outweighs them all. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

  A wildfire sparks in her eyes. “But you do?”

  “Did I say that?”

  She shrugs. “You implied it.”

  “I,” I laugh, “implied it?” What is wrong with her? “When, Dasha? When I apologized for not making sure you wanted to suck my dick?” I shake my head. “Look, it doesn’t even matter. Just promise me, next time he asks you to perform a sexual favor for me…don’t.”

  Unsure how to keep all the anger and disappointment inside, I turn to leave.

  I make it two steps before she gets ahold of my shirt. “Soldier.”

  I won’t face her. I can’t. “You delivered your gift. There’s nothing else for you to do or say.”

  She cusses under her breath. “There is,” she finally says.

  “Spill it,” I grumble, tapping my foot impatiently. I seriously need away from her. Right this instant.

  She keeps quiet.

  Well then. Goodbye, Dasha.

  “He told me not to let you touch me,” she shouts after me, stopping me dead in my tracks. “Will would kill us both if he knew what I let you do to me.” She’s behind me, her tits pressed against my back. “What I wanted you to do to me for a very long time,” she whispers.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask, my whole body on fire.

  “Because…” She tugs at my shirt, forcing me to face her. “I hate it when you hate yourself. You’re one of the good ones. Don’t let me corrupt you.”

  I have no fucking clue what that even means.

  Dasha cups my face. “Why are you here?” Her voice lost the edge. Fuck, she almost sounds like she really cares. “Tell me. Please?”

  Why am I here? Her hazel eyes hold me captive, and I can’t for the life of me remember why the hell I came here.

  “Markus.” So that’s how it sounds when an angel calls your name, huh? Sweet. Alluring. With a promise of a million sins to be committed and forgiven. “What are you doing?”

  What am I doing? I have no fucking clue. All I know is she’s gravity, and I can’t fight her.

  “Markus,” she whispers, gently pushing me back. “What the actual—”

  I kiss her.

  Slow.

  Careful.

  Gentle.

  I give her every chance to end this. To make her own decision about what she wants or doesn’t want. Maybe it’s sick, but I need this. I need her to push me away or embrace me on her own free will.

  She doesn’t fight me. She leans in, opening for me. There’s nothing rough or hard about this moment. There are no walls or sins. It’s just us, in the hallway, allowing our tongues to dance to a heartbreaking melody.

  Dasha tastes like jasmine and peppermint—fresh and sweet. All her softness is pressed against my hardness, and I can’t help it…I fall. So hard, so deep, I’m pretty sure I won’t survive this.

  Hands on my chest, she rests her forehead against mine. “I’m going to be the death of you, soldier.”

  I grab her thighs and pull her up. “I died a long time ago.” In a narrow hallway, watching my brother’s head hit the ground.

  “Will is—”

  I claim her mouth and kiss the hell out of her.

  “So,” I whisper breathlessly. “Are you going to let me in, or do you prefer your neighbors to watch when I eat your pussy?”

  She reaches behind her, opening the door to fucking heaven.

  “You didn’t think this was my pity fuck, did you?”

  Markus

  How we made it to the ebony dining table is a mystery to me. I vaguely recall a bump and the unmistakable sound of shattered glass. A vase maybe?

  Who the fuck cares?

  We’re here.

  She’s naked.

  The hoodie went first.

  Sweat pants and lace panties followed suit.

  “We,” she works the zipper of my jeans, “are going to hell for this.”

  I step out of the redundant fabric and drink her in. Perky nipples scream for my attention. Her flat, ripped stomach aches for my touch. And her beautiful, wet pussy? She begs for my tongue.

  “Heaven,” I push my fingertips through her messy bun, freeing her curls from the rubber band, “is highly overrated.” The only goddess I’m worshipping is right here, waiting for me to send her to another galaxy.

  A dull sound alerts me to my jeans hitting the hardwood floor. I grab her hoodie, lift her hips, and push it under her ass. I need her to be comfortable when I fuck her to oblivion.

  “Lay back,” I order, insatiable hunger building in my core.

  Like a good soldier, she does as she’s told. Not hesitating. Never hesitating.

  “Spread your legs for me,” I demand, eyes glued to her rosy pearl.

  Dasha digs the heels of her feet into the wood, opening for me.

  Last time my tongue was inside her, tasting that sweet-as-fuck pussy, she broke her asshole boyfriend’s rules. Let me taste her despite his orders not to let me touch her. I can’t believe Deveraux did that. God, if I was in my right mind, I would have kept walking when she told me the truth. I should have barged into Deveraux’s office and told him to go fuck himself, that I’m done watching his sorry ass. I’m a lot of things when I’m near Dasha. In my right mind isn’t one of them.

  “Tell me,” I say, pulling her closer to the edge of the table, closer to me. “What do you want?”

  Dasha holds my gaze, her teeth grazing her lower lip. “Isn’t it kind of obvious?” She guides my hand to her pussy.

  Wet.

  So fucking wet.

  She was also wet when I sucked her clit and bought her a ticket to orgasm land Friday night. I’d never have guessed I was an obligation she had to fulfill. Apparently, I was wrong. This time I need to make sure she’s in this for no other reason than her pleasure.

  Running my hands down her thighs, I shake my head. “Tell me, Dasha.”

  “Shit.” Her head falls back as I stop just short of her bikini zone. “Would you fuck me, already?”

  “No.” I run my hands back to the hollow of her knees. Then up again. “You’re going to say it. Or…” I plant a soft kiss on her inner thigh. “I’m out.”

  She props her elbows on the table. Meeting me halfway, she reaches for the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head. “What I want,” she says, sliding her hands down my chest, tugging at the waistband of my boxers. “Is you.” She shakes her head ever so slightly, as if her desire boggles her mind. “I,” she finds my butt cheeks, dragging her long nails up and down, “wanted you Friday night. I fucking need you now.”

  I admit it. It feels amazing to get validation. This—whatever it is—wasn’t a one-way street. Dasha longs for my touch as much as I long for hers.

  A wicked grin tugs at my lips. “Was that so hard?”

  Dasha circles the back of my neck. “It sort of was.”

  She finds my lips. Her tongue sweeps inside. She’s controlled by the sizzling heat rising between us—inside of us.

  She insists.

  She persists.

  Takes control over me, in a matter of seconds.

  I killed.

  I died.

  I was resurrected by her kisses.

  Her soft hands slide up my side, burning my skin in their wake. Our lips stay together, tongues in sync, hearts pumping at max.

  Dasha shifts closer, her clit taunting my dick. “It’s funny.” She gasps. “I could have sworn you asked me not to perform any more sexual favors a few minutes ago.”

  “Is that what this is?” I push her back down, spreading her legs farther. “A pity fuck?”

&
nbsp; She arches her neck, looking me right in the eye. “Maybe.”

  I lower my head between her legs, flicking her clit. “Maybe?”

  “Probably,” she chokes out, digging her nails into the wood.

  I trace kisses up her inner calf, taking my sweet time at the hollow of her knee. “Probably?”

  Soft moans heat the damp air as I move over her thighs to her shaved bikini zone. “Shhhhit.” She rolls her hips, searching my face. “Just…”

  I lick her lip.

  Once.

  Twice.

  “Fuuuck.” She scrubs her fingers through my hair, pushing me against her throbbing, wet pussy. “Just fuck me…” Our gazes collide. “Please?”

  Please—the most perfect word I’ve heard all day.

  I go down on her. Inhaling her scent. Memorizing it. Bathing in it.

  I nibble, suck, lick.

  And do it all over.

  Her moans are pure fucking ecstasy. The way she lifts her hips, grabs the back of my head, holds me captive—a goddamn dream come true.

  She’s my last meal, my green mile, and when I die, she’ll be my ferry, taking me to the land of the dead with no fucking regrets.

  I continue to taste her, to explore all of her with my tongue. Dasha’s skin is soft, even when her edges are rough. She’s my meth, my heroin, and my fucking salvation all at once.

  Returning to the sweetest part of her, I rub my thumb over her clit. Small, deliberate circles, causing her to arch her back and scream my name.

  Keeping up the pressure, my eager tongue strokes her length.

  Once.

  Twice.

  “Oh, fuck.” Dasha’s thighs slam shut, imprisoning me in heaven. “Yes, right there.”

  I swirl my tongue around her entrance, rubbing her clit harder and harder.

  “Mar—” Red hair spills on the ebony table. Curled fists slam against the wood. Hazel eyes roll back. “Oh God…Oh my—”

  She’s got the most beautiful orgasm face I’ve ever seen. Raw. Rough. Edgy. And yet soft…so fucking soft.

  I should let her catch her breath. But that’s like asking a starving man not to touch the steak under his nose.

  I claim her mouth. Letting her taste how fucking delicious she is, showing her how desperately I need more of this…of her.

  Self-restraint becomes a foreign word, breaking our connection almost impossible. After minutes, or possibly hours, I’ve gathered enough willpower to take my lips off hers.

  My gaze darts over her well-defined abs, up to her gorgeous tits. Cupping them, I run my thumbs over her stiff nipples. “How,” I bite her left, “do you,” her right, “want to be fucked?”

  Half in ecstasy, half confused, she squints. “What?”

  Our eyes lock, and I repeat the question with more force. “How do you want to be fucked, Dasha?”

  Still jack. I can literally see the question marks laced into her post-orgasm face. “I…” She shakes her head. “How I want to be fucked?” She sounds as if I just asked her if she wants to marry me—in shock, totally awed.

  I bite back a smile and lean in. “C’mon.” I grab her sweet ass, pulling her against my hard-as-steel dick. “You didn’t think this was my pity fuck, did you?” Do I sound like an asshole? Yes. Do I mean to be one? No. Dasha was passed around like a piece of meat. Fucked God knows who, to please them. This time, she’s calling the shots, and I aim to please. “Tell me,” I egg her on. “How do you want me to fuck you, little girl?”

  “I’m not a little—”

  I lick her neck, taking my sweet time.

  “Shit.” She gives me more access, her objection long forgotten.

  My dick pulsates with need. Quite frankly, I’m going to cum just kissing her if she doesn’t tell me what the fuck she wants. “Do you want to be fucked from behind, feel the wood on your belly when I thrust into you?” I cup her pussy. “Do you want to climb on top of me, riding my dick? Or do you want to be laid down on your bed, feeling me on top of you?” I’m okay with just about anything as long as I can bury myself in her.

  She fists my hair, forcing my head up.

  Silence falls between us, like a soft blanket of silk. We look at each other, drown in each other, fucking live for each other, in that very moment.

  Dasha caresses my cheek. “Take me to bed.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  I find her bedroom, lay her down, and position myself on top of her. When I look into her eyes, spotting a glimmer of something I can’t quite recognize, something that slices through heart and marrow, I’m overcome by a new need. Fucking her isn’t enough anymore. I need to worship her. Even if I run the risk of losing myself in the prayer.

  I kiss her. Mouth, jaw, neck, breasts, belly—everywhere.

  She moans, gasps—she’s fucking alive.

  “Please,” she begs, lifting her hips. “Please, just…”

  I plant a quick kiss on her temple and push my tip inside. A guttural roar climbs out of the depth of my soul. “Fuck,” I move deeper, “you’re everything I thought you’d be.” Hot. Wet. Tight. Perfect.

  Dasha looks at me, watching me as I thrust deeper and deeper. “So are you.”

  Captivated by her gaze, driven to the breaking point by her heels digging into my ass—I let the rhythm grow. Faster. Harder. Deeper.

  She glides her hand down my back, and I tremble under her touch. Goose bumps rise on my skin, mixing with the wildfire blazing through my loins.

  I’m closer to the edge than ever. And when I kiss her, continue to move inside her as if my life depended on it, I am met by her needy hips, and I drive us both to another sphere.

  We moan.

  We scream.

  We celebrate the stars, the sky, the whole goddamn creation.

  And above all, we hold on to each other, anchoring us both in a world that wasn’t made for that kind of bliss, a world of murder and mayhem, death and pain.

  “Markus?” she whispers against my chest. Holding on tight.

  I brush a lose strand out of her face. “Hmm?”

  She cups my neck, pulling my cheek against hers. “Thank you.”

  “Not for this,” I say, wrapping her in my arms. “Never for this, Dasha.”

  Neither one of us moves or speaks. For the time being, we’re not Markus and Dasha—Deveraux’s bodyguard and girlfriend—we’re just two people coming alive in each other’s arms.

  “Love is your weakness, myshka, and it’ll be your death too.”

  Shadow

  Nikolai Alexeev was a lot of things—a killer, a traitor, a sadist.

  Nikolai Alexeev was no coward.

  Maybe he always knew he’d find his end at the hands of one of his “deti,” as he liked to call us. Or maybe he was stupid enough to believe I cared enough about my torturer to spare him. I honestly didn’t care what made him stop running, what caused him to face me in the midst of the snow-covered trees and frozen soil. He was within a finger’s reach, and I was ready to deliver justice.

  “What do you think you’re doing, myshka? Please…” He sounded like the man who taught me to kill, the mentor who turned me into what I am—a monster without a conscience. The slight tremble in his voice, the stiffness of his shoulders, and the muscle contractions in his left eye told me he wasn’t. This creature, like so many before him, feared me.

  I dusted fresh snow crystals out of my hair and met his gaze with a smile. “You were right,” I admitted, not the least bit guilty to embrace his advice. “In the end, they all beg for their lives.”

  He shook his head, gaze glued to the safari knife lounging in my palm. “You don’t have the guts.”

  I laughed dryly. “Says the man who turned me into a merciless killer.”

  “Myshka.” He took a step in my direction. “You know I had no choice, don’t you?”

  I pressed the tip of the sharp blade against my index finger and watched him quiver. “She had nothing to do with any of this.” He nodded. “And yet you made her
pay for my sins?” It wasn’t really a question. I already had the answer.

  Nikolai’s shoulders drooped and his head hung low. He was just an ungraceful shadow of his former self. Fitting as he was the one who turned me into a shadow.

  “No famous last words?” I shrugged, slowly closing the distance between us. “Fine by me. Have it your way.”

  Nikolai was still a force to be reckoned. But he’d trained me, had taught me everything, and he knew well he was no match for me. No one was. “You want to blame me for what happened to her?” he tossed at my feet, stopping me. “Go ahead. But we both know it was you who got her killed.”

  Wanna know what else the bastard taught me? Never give in to rage. It blinds you, makes you weak, and gives your opponent just the time he needs to turn the tables on you. “Is that so?” I asked, cool as a cucumber. Later, I would let the hate escape at a tree, tearing my knuckles good.

  “I warned you,” he said, eyes pleading. “Attachments are impossible in our line of work.” He exhaled, a cloud of hot breath moving through the icy air. “The people you let yourself care about become targets, the bull’s-eye for anyone who aims to hurt you.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “You mean like you wanted to hurt me?”

  “I didn’t put her on the plane,” he almost pleaded.

  “No.” I smiled. “But you didn’t stop them either. Instead, you stood by, kissing the defense minister’s ass as he sold her to the Bratva. You,” I inched nearer, “are worse than all of them.”

  His breath became ragged and thin. “Why didn’t you kill the American?”

  “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “You had to learn that lesson the hard way,” he justified himself.

  “Yeah?” I gazed into his sharp gray eyes. “And what lesson would that be?”

  “That the worst monster of all is love,” he whispers. “I broke you and rebuilt you from scratch. But I never managed to blacken your heart to the point where you no longer cared. She was always your drive, your reason to kill. Love is your weakness, myshka, and it’ll be your death too.”

  “Right now,” I say, slamming the knife just below his chin and up through his goddamn brain. “It’ll be yours.”