“No.”
“No? Interesting name.”
Christophe flipped him off. “I tell you, you’ll have her family history in minutes.”
Nix’s brow arched. “And you believe I don’t now?”
Christophe folded his arms across his chest, briefly wondering if he could shove his fist into the other man’s face before he reacted.
“How many nights did you get blackout drunk? I’ve calculated exactly four hundred and three different ways to kill you over these last few months alone. Had any other enemy decided to target you, or the others, during this time, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.” Nix shook his head, glancing out the window. “I understand grief, but you can’t let yourself get so lost in it you forget you’re the one who’s still living.”
“What do you want me to say?” Christophe asked, feeling his temper spike.
“It’s not about what I want you to say. It’s what I want you to do. Mourn for as long as you need to, but don’t stop moving forward in the process.”
Christophe glanced at his watch. “Are we done? You see I’m here and in one piece. I haven’t had a drink in two weeks, but you probably already know that, no? So unless you want to attempt one of your kill theories—and I invite you to try because I’m bored—you can go now.”
Rarely did someone threaten Nix and he didn’t retaliate in some way, but for Christophe, he just smiled.
“Right, now tell me what you really want.”
Nix tucked his phone away. “I thought I did.”
“If it was just about giving Calavera peace of mind, you would have shown her the feeds from your surveillance. You came in person for something else.”
That only managed to make the man’s smile grow. “Nice to see your senses are coming back to you, Fang. I was worried there for a moment.”
He rolled his eyes. “Get on with it.”
“I have a job for you.”
“What kind of job?” While he enjoyed the time he spent with Mariya, he also missed his work. “And is this a job for me?”
“For all of you, actually. I figured you could relay the message once you’ve returned to the loft.”
“Who says I’m even considering going back?”
“I won’t insult you by answering.”
Of course, he’d known that too. “When?”
“It’s not time sensitive, presently, but soon, I’ll say.”
That would give him some time at least, to figure shit out with Mariya and handle her problem. Once he did, there was still the small matter of explaining to her just what he did for a living.
He doubted she would be surprised or outraged by it, considering her family, but not many people merely blinked at the mention of their lover being a bank robber.
It just didn’t go over well.
“I’ll let you know.”
Nix stood to leave, buttoning his suit jacket. “Whatever your intentions with the Kuznetsov girl, do your best not to draw too much attention to yourself. I would prefer you not make a name for yourself any more than you have.”
Christophe smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Christophe was waiting for her when she got off work, his gaze easily finding hers from where he stood leaning against the brick wall with an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was different about him. Maybe, he stood a little straighter. Or maybe, his eyes didn’t look as sad.
But she didn’t miss the way his gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her legs for a bit before slowly climbing back up.
Awareness prickled on her skin, and though it had only been a couple of days since she had slept with him for the first time, she suddenly felt needy.
Even spending an entire night learning his body and what he liked wasn’t enough.
She had tried to muster any remorse at sleeping with him when she was technically married, but she couldn’t. She felt alive when she was with him, something she had never felt with Feliks.
“Are you coming over?” she asked, the question coming out more breathless than she intended.
If she had meant to hide her feelings, she’d done a poor job of it, but he didn’t seem to mind, simply trailing behind her.
It was hard to pay attention to which key to put in the door when she could feel him standing behind her, the heat of his body intoxicating.
They were barely inside her apartment before he grabbed her face in his hands, skimming his lips over hers, there then not. “I didn’t do this right last time,” he whispered, the words sinking beneath her skin and making her breath catch.
But he had always been good at that—making her react. She didn’t have a chance to question his meaning before he was taking her mouth and easing her lips apart. It was never just a kiss with Christophe. Never some sweet, innocent thing that would have her smiling against his mouth.
He consumed her as his tongue traced over her bottom lip before his teeth gently bit down. He made her react like this was the first time all over again.
She was lost to him.
Lost in the way his mouth moved over hers, taking everything she gave.
Lost in the way he wasn’t shy in pressing against her, making sure she felt the rigid flesh between his legs.
She didn’t even have a chance to take a breath before he was easing her across the room toward her bed and pushing her down onto the bed. He wasn’t gone for long before he was kneeling on the bed, easing forward to settle in the cradle of her thighs, erasing all the distance between them.
If she thought his earlier words were because he meant to be gentle with her, that he had given in too soon, she was mistaken. Gentle was the last thing he was as he took her mouth, his fingers coming up to grip her hair.
Hunger swept through her as he urged her mouth open further, his tongue sweeping in to curl against hers. She didn’t even get a chance to fully enjoy it before his hands were gripping her waist tight a moment before he was shifting his weight off her. Flipping her over, he dragged her up to her knees in front of him.
A stunned gasp left her as she grew wetter in a rush, her fingers balling into fists, but with the lone hand he had on her now, she couldn’t move. She could do nothing but wait.
Unbidden, her gaze was drawn to the floor-length mirror she kept behind the couch right in front of her bed. She had always used it to get ready in the mornings, but now, it offered a different view.
She admired the sight they made—her on her knees with him right behind her—a split second before he was easing his hand up her spine and pressing between her shoulder blades to ease her down onto the bed.
Beyond the curve of her spine and the way her hips flared, Christophe looked impatient as he dragged his shirt over his head, revealing the scarred and tattooed flesh he kept hidden beneath—she didn’t think she would ever tire of seeing him naked.
With unnerving focus, his sole attention was on her, or rather the place between her legs where she begged for what he promised to give her. She could feel how wet she was and wondered whether he could see the evidence of how much she wanted him.
The way he stared, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, she knew the answer.
When he was as naked as she was, his gaze came up to hers, watching her watch him through the mirror. A dangerous sort of smile made her legs tremble, as he dropped his hands back down to her thighs and yanked her back against him.
She was sure, so sure, that if he touched her and eased those talented fingers inside her, she would come on the spot.
Her head fell forward, her hair swung forward, momentarily blinding her, but what she couldn’t see, she felt, and it didn’t take much for her imagination to conjure an image at what he must look like behind her.
What are you doing to me? she wanted to ask, wanting to hear his answer, but it wasn’t until she heard his chuckle that she realized she had spoken the question aloud.
“I wanted to see how quickly I could mak
e you come,” he said from above her, his voice doing wondrous things to her.
Mariya had never thought it was possible to feel words—for them to slide down her spine as surely as his fingers did before they were tugging her panties to the side with a hard jerk.
He punctuated his words by running his fingers along her slippery folds, rubbing over everything before easing along her clit, rubbing tight circles until she arched back into him.
Embarrassing moans escaped her throat as she tried to force him to give her more, but as she tried to get more from him, he eased away.
“You come so fucking easily,” he said, a little breathless and a lot turned on, as though he hadn’t told her that very same thing last time. “But I bet you’d come so much harder if I made you wait for it.” He was barely touching her now—just a brief flicker of his fingertips around that bundle of nerves. “D’you want to test that theory?”
Her first answer was no, but the other side of her addicted to his touch was practically screaming yes.
But Christophe didn’t give her a chance to decide before he was easing those two fingers inside her, making her bite her fist to keep from crying out.
She didn’t think he had meant just a game he wanted to play, but she realized very quickly that he didn’t intend to make this easy on her, not when every few seconds he would ease the pressure, leaving her empty and throbbing, breathless pleas falling from her mouth.
But it wasn’t until he was sliding his free hand up her back and wrapping her hair around his fist that she fully grasped what all he was about to give her.
“Vam eto nravitsya—Do you like that?” he demanded, sinking his fingers so deep into her pussy she nearly came off the bed.
It was torture, what he was doing to her, and he could barely hide his joy for the way she responded. She could practically feel his smile as she panted, breathlessly telling him yes, yes she did love everything he was doing.
She needed more.
Was even willing to beg for it.
But he knew the moment she was about to come before she did. It felt like her entire body was shaking and everything inside her coiled tight, threatening to burst.
And when he yanked her up, his fingers never losing their traction against her clit, he whispered guttural words in Romanian, but knowing she didn’t understand a word of it, he happily demonstrated, gripping her hair a little tighter, smacking her pussy hard and fast, the sharp sting melting the moment he was rubbing her clit again.
A second, just a breathless moment in time was all it took before she couldn’t deny it any longer, and she was coming so hard she saw stars.
Christophe made a guttural sound of approval, rubbing her harder and faster until she was certain she’d come again.
But just when she was sure he would force it out of her, he dialed it all back.
Easing back, he undid the button of his jeans, then the zipper, and shoved his jeans down before getting them off altogether.
She took a breath as she heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and seconds later, he was back, easing his cock inside her.
The soreness eased as he held himself still inside her, gradually opening her up and finally, finally, she felt full.
He sighed, the sound sending bursts of sensation down her spine. With both hands on her hips, he dug his fingers in, squeezing tight before he was jerking her back and driving his cock deeper, repeating the motion over and over and over until she was gasping his name on a broken cry.
She no longer cared if anyone heard her or felt embarrassed at how brazenly she met each of his thrusts.
But Christophe quickly slipped a hand over her mouth and thrust two fingers inside, making her close her lips around them and suck.
Each jagged thrust made her moan around his fingers, begging without words for him to give her more. He liked it, the rapid curses falling from his lips driving her on.
It thrilled her to hear just how affected he was—that she wasn’t the only one drowning in the sensations.
It couldn’t possibly be better with anyone else.
Droplets of sweat gathered on her skin, making everything slippery and hot.
The tension inside her continued to spiral, reaching higher and higher until she wasn’t even sure if she was breathing—her need to come taking over her every thought.
Then she felt his tongue sliding up her back until he was at the delicate spot where her shoulder met her throat.
He only had to graze his teeth there with the promise of delicious pain before she was bursting at the seams. His hips jerked as she did, as though her orgasm had sparked his.
Even with the latex covering his cock, she could still feel him coming, the throbbing making her ache.
Neither of them moved for a long time as they caught their breath and came down from the high.
When she met his gaze in the mirror, he smiled.
Lust. It was going to ruin her.
Mariya had never thought it was possible to become addicted to someone, where just their mere presence felt absolutely amazing, but hours later, as she watched Christophe walk naked to her kitchen, she was starting to believe it was.
She wanted him back beside her already, even though he’d only walked a few feet away.
Christophe seemed unusually quiet, his thoughts seeming miles away, even as he crossed the floor back to her with a bottle of water in his hands.
She couldn't help but to study him, the sharp lines and contours of his chest, the scars marring its perfection. They only added to his appeal, though. That he had suffered and survived despite them—that he’d been strong enough.
Her gaze roamed over them as her hands had, and she could still remember quite vividly the way the muscles had flexed when he was inside her. Too focused on what he'd been doing to her, she hadn't a chance to study them the way she was now.
But even as she was free to look at them without obstruction, they only made her heart ache for him. Many of them were obviously old.
A corner of his mouth tipped up as he joined her in bed, his back against the headboard. “Ask me about them,” he said suddenly, making her gaze jump up to his. “Ask me about the scars.”
Mariya was curious, of course, but she could only imagine what happened to him to get scars like those, and she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.
Plus, she also knew the hazards of asking personal questions. Just as they had before, she was sure once she finished asking the question he wanted from her, he would ask one of his own.
But she was sorely tempted.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she said instead, giving him, and herself, a way out of the conversation.
He studied her a moment. “I’ll tell you if you do something for me in return.”
So he didn’t want to ask a question of his own. “What do you want?”
“Don’t cry for me.”
She wished he would have asked a question instead. “Is it that bad?” she whispered, sitting up and pulling the sheet with her.
Christophe shrugged. A muscle jumping in his jaw was the only indication that made her think he was uncomfortable, but she couldn’t be sure if it was because of what he was about to tell her or because he didn’t want her sad because of what happened to him. “It’s life.”
“I’ll try,” she finally answered, “but I can’t promise I won’t.”
Leaning over the edge of the bed, he rifled through his jeans until he pulled out a pack of the sweetly smelling cigarettes he smoked and a lighter.
“When I was ten,” he said as he lit it, “I was sent to an orphanage.”
Folding her legs beneath her, her hair fell over her shoulders as she adjusted. She didn’t know how this story would go, but she didn’t think it would be pleasant from the resigned tone of his voice.
“Why were you sent to an orphanage?” she asked, immediately regretting her question. Only two reasons why, she thought, one would be sent there. Either his parents
died … or they hadn’t wanted him.
Either way, she resisted the urge to reach and touch his hand, wanting to offer him comfort.
He scratched the underside of his jaw, his gaze drifting. “It’s not a pleasant story.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He didn’t launch into the story, waiting until he had the cigarette between his lips, the end glowing bright red. “It was the winter of 2000 …”
Winter fell swiftly over Ferentari, Romania, frost settling over the buildings and streets in thick layers, coating everything in a slick coldness that might have been beautiful had the rest of the city not looked like hell froze over.
Even the trash littered outside Christophe’s apartment had frozen to the ground, and despite garbage men having braved the arctic weather some hours prior, old furniture and ruptured black bags remained.
Not for the first time, he wished his family lived in Bucharest where the streets were cleaner, the air was fresher, and he didn’t have to worry about the bad men in the apartments nearby who always looked at him funny when he was walking home from school.
Bucharest was only five kilometers away, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world with how often he visited the bigger city.
Sitting close to the space heater he was sure hadn’t worked for nearly a year, Christophe stared down at the street below, adjusting the sheet and threadbare blanket he had wrapped around himself. Outside the window, he watched the snow fall in thick flakes and tried to count the number of people down below who braved the cold weather to get to the one grocery store in all of Ferentari.
If one could help it, they didn’t come here, and not just because the buildings were old and more trash covered the streets than cars.
Ferentari was one of the poorest cities in Romania, and it looked it.
“No one wants to be here,” his mama, Daniela, always said, her colorful skirts shifting behind her as she walked. She always got this look on her face whenever she talked about their home, as though disappointed she had to call it that at all.
“Then why are we here?” he would ask in return, but she never gave him an answer.
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