Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  “What?” I’m so startled I roll over onto my back, forgetting my nudity.

  A slow, wicked smile curves his mouth as his gaze travels over my body before returning to my face. “Sleep, ptichka. We both need it.”

  I sit up and grab a pillow, holding it pressed against my chest as I scoot toward the headboard—as far away from him as the bed allows. What he’s saying makes no sense. He clearly wants me; his huge erection is all but tearing through his briefs. “You… you want to sleep with me? Just sleep?”

  The smile leaves his face, and his eyes gleam with dark heat. “Obviously, I want more, but tonight, I’ll settle for sleep. I told you, Sara—I won’t hurt you again. I’ll wait until you’re ready… until you want me as much as I want you.”

  Want him? I want to scream that he’s insane, that I will never voluntarily have sex with him, but I swallow the retort. I’m too vulnerable right now, and he’s too unpredictable. Besides, when he’s asleep, I’ll have a chance to get away—maybe even smack him over the head and call the cops.

  “All right.” I try to look even more helpless than I truly am. “If you promise not to hurt me…”

  His lips quirk. “I promise.” Getting off the bed, he pulls the blanket from under me with one strong tug and turns it down before fluffing up the remaining pillows. Patting the exposed sheets, he says, “Come here.”

  I scoot a few inches toward him, hugging my pillow to my chest.

  “Closer.”

  I repeat the maneuver, my heart thudding with anxiety. I don’t trust him one bit. He could be toying with me, lying about his intentions for some bizarre purpose.

  “Get under the blanket,” he says, and I obey, glad to have something other than a pillow to cover me. Unfortunately, my relief is short-lived. As soon as I lie down, he turns off the overhead light and gets under the blanket next to me, his long, muscular body stretching out beside me like he belongs there.

  “Roll over onto your right side,” he says and does so himself after turning off the bedside lamp—our last remaining source of illumination.

  My ribcage tightens as I understands what he intends.

  My husband’s killer wants to spoon with me.

  Ignoring the disorienting darkness and the choking feeling in my throat, I turn onto my side and try to breathe evenly as one muscular arm stretches out under the pillow below me and the other one wraps possessively around my ribcage, pulling me into the curve of his big body. However, breathing evenly is impossible. My naked butt nestles against the hard length of his cock, his warm, minty breath fans the fine hair at my temple, and his legs mold against mine from the back. I’m surrounded, completely overtaken by his size and strength. And heat. God, his body generates so much heat. Wherever his bare flesh presses against mine, I feel burned, as if he runs hotter than a regular human being. Except it’s not him—it’s me. I’m so frozen I’m shivering, the cold sweat having evaporated on my skin.

  I don’t know how long we lie there like that, but eventually, his warmth seeps into me and transforms into a different kind of heat, the treacherous one that invades my dreams and makes me burn with shame. Now that I’m not so terrified, I’m aware of his powerful body as something more than a threat… of his hard cock as something other than a tool of violation. His warm male scent surrounds me, and my breasts feel heavy and sensitive above the thick band of his arm, my nipples tight and my sex aching with slick, throbbing emptiness. How long has it been since I’ve been held like this? Two years? Three? I can’t recall the last time George and I had sex, much less lay together like lovers, and despite the wrongness of the situation, the animal part of me enjoys being held like this, feeling the warmth of a man’s body and the pulsing hum of arousal in my core.

  It’s a good thing I’m not planning to sleep, because there’s no way I’d be able to like this—not with my heart racing a mile a minute and my mind outpacing it with a scramble of thoughts. Fear and anger, arousal and shame—it all blends together, spiking my heart rate and souring my stomach. What does Peter really want? What does he get out of this bizarre cuddling? That massive erection must be uncomfortable, if not downright painful, but he seems content to lie there, doing nothing more than holding me. Why? What’s his deal? Why did he latch on to me?

  And could it possibly be true, what he said about George? Could my husband have somehow harmed his family?

  It’s the worst idea in the world, but I can’t stop myself. My mouth seems to operate independently of my brain as I whisper, “Um, Peter… can you tell me something about yourself?”

  I can feel his surprise in the minute tightening of his muscles and the change in his breathing. I’ve never addressed him by his name before, but it would be strange to call him anything else when I’m lying naked in his arms. Also, a little emotional intimacy might make him more inclined to answer my questions—and less likely to hurt me for asking them.

  “What do you want to know?” he murmurs after a second, shifting to fit me more comfortably against him.

  Why do you think my husband massacred your family? That’s what I’m dying to ask, but I’m not stupid enough to go there directly. I remember his rage the last time we touched on this topic. Instead, I say softly, “They told me you were born in Russia. Is that true?”

  “Yes.” His deep voice takes on a note of amusement. “You can’t tell by the accent?”

  “It’s very mild, so no. You could be from pretty much anywhere in Europe or the Middle East. In general, your English is excellent.” I’m speaking too fast from nervousness, so I make myself take a breath and slow down. “Did you learn it in school?”

  “No, at my job.”

  The job where he tracked down and interrogated supposed threats to Russia? I suppress a shudder and try not to think about those interrogation methods. Keep it light, I tell myself. Work up to the heavy stuff. In an upbeat tone, I say, “As an adult? That’s impressive. Usually, you have to learn a language as a child to be able to speak it as well as you do.”

  There, that’s good. A little flattery, a little genuine admiration. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in a vulnerable position: establish a rapport with your attacker, make him see you as someone he can empathize with. Of course, that strategy hinges on said attacker’s ability to empathize—something I suspect the psychopath wrapped around me is missing.

  “Well, I did learn a few English words and phrases as a child,” he says. “I suppose that helped.”

  “Oh? Where did you learn them? In school, or from your parents?”

  He chuckles, his muscular chest expanding against my back. “Neither. Just from American movies. They’re your main export, you know—that and hamburgers.”

  “Right.” I inhale, trying to ignore the heavy arm slung across my ribcage and the hard evidence of his arousal throbbing against my ass. It bothers me in ways I don’t care to think about. “So what made you decide to go into your… um, profession?”

  He buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply, as if breathing me in. “What exactly did Ryson tell you?”

  I tense at his casual use of the agent’s last name, then force myself to relax. Of course he’d know who Ryson is; he likely saw us talk at the cafe. “He said you were Russian Special Forces. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” His voice sounds husky as he shifts behind me again, his cock like a steel pole pressed against me. “I headed a small off-the-books unit specializing in counterterrorism and counterinsurgency.”

  “That’s… unusual.” Talking to him—and thus keeping him awake in this aroused state—is probably not such a great idea, but I can’t make myself shut up. “How does one get into something like that? Did you join the army and get recruited there?”

  “No.” He continues to nuzzle his face against my hair. “They found me in what you would call juvie.”

  “A prison for juvenile delinquents?”

  “It was more of a labor camp, but yes.”

  “What—” I swallow, tryi
ng to concentrate on his words rather than the effect his obvious desire for me is having on my body. “What did you do to end up there?”

  This has nothing to do with George, but I can’t suppress my curiosity. I suspect that whatever I learn will only frighten me more, but I want to know what makes my enemy tick.

  I want to know his weaknesses, so I can use them against him.

  “I killed the headmaster of the orphanage where I was raised.” There’s no trace of regret or apology in Peter’s words, no emotion beyond the lust thickening his voice. He could just as well have been relaying what he had for dinner. “I guess you could say I started on my career path early.”

  “I see.” My skin crawls, but I do my best to sound calm. “How old were you?”

  “Eleven, almost twelve.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  He sighs and pulls back slightly. “Does it really matter, ptichka? You’ve made up your mind about me, and no sob story from my past is likely to change it. Right now, you hate me too much to feel anything other than joy at whatever misfortune I might’ve endured.”

  So much for building that emotional rapport. “Well, what did you expect?” I ask bitterly, dropping all pretense of sympathetic listening. “That you could torture me and kill my husband, and we’d be pals?”

  “No, ptichka. Despite what you may think, I’m not delusional. Your negative feelings toward me are rational and expected. I’m just hoping to change them over time.”

  He is delusional if he thinks I’ll ever feel anything but hatred toward him, but I don’t bother arguing. “What is that word you keep calling me? Ptee-something?”

  “Ptichka.” He resumes nuzzling my hair, or smelling it, or whatever the hell he’s doing. “It means little bird in Russian.”

  My hands fist in the blanket in front of me. “A bird?”

  “Hmm. A small songbird, pretty and graceful like you.” He pauses, then adds softly, “Also caged, like you.”

  The asshole. I clench my teeth and try to shift away from him as much as the restraining arm around my waist would allow. “That’s a temporary situation.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean caged by me.” I can hear the smile in his voice as he tightens his grip on me, preventing me from squirming away. “I might be holding you at the moment, but you were imprisoned long before I entered your life.”

  I freeze in surprise. “What?”

  “Oh, yes. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Sara. I know you’ve felt it: all the expectations from society, from your parents and your husband and your friends… The pressure to succeed because you were born smart and pretty, the desire to be perfect, the need to be everything to everyone at all times…” His voice is soft and dark, wrapping me in a silky, seductive web. “I saw it in the club yesterday: your longing for freedom, your desire to live without the restraints placed on you. For a few moments on that dance floor, you let the shackles fall away, and I saw the pretty bird exit her golden cage and fly free. I saw you, Sara, and it was beautiful.”

  For a couple of seconds, all I can do is lie unmoving, my chest aching and my eyes burning in the darkness. I want to laugh and deny his words, but I’m afraid that if I try to speak, I’ll break down and scream. How could this man, this violent stranger, know something so private—something I’ve just begun to understand about myself?

  How could he know that my nice, comfortable life no longer makes me happy… that maybe it never did?

  Forcing down the swelling bubble in my throat, I let out a derisive snort and say, “So you’re going to… what? Liberate me from my restrictive life? Set me free and watch me fly?”

  “No, ptichka.” His voice is filled with gentle mockery. “Nothing as noble as that.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m going to place you in a cage of my own and make you sing.”

  Chapter 18

  Peter

  She shudders in my arms, and I feel the fear rippling through her. A part of me regrets my brutal honesty, but I can’t bring myself to lie to her. My desire for her is nothing like the gentle affection I’d felt for Tamila or the straightforward lust I’d experienced with other women.

  My need for Sara is darker, tainted by what passed between us and the knowledge that she used to belong to my enemy. I don’t want to hurt her, yet I can’t deny that her suffering appeals to me in some perverse way. Tormenting her cools my burning rage, satisfies my need to punish and avenge, even as I tell myself I want to heal her, to atone for the pain I inflicted.

  When it comes to Sara, I’m a mess of contradictions, and the only thing I’m sure of is that a simple fucking won’t be enough.

  I want more.

  I want to make her mine.

  It’s tempting to break my promise and take her now, to claim her and ease the hunger consuming me alive. She’s completely naked in my embrace, her bare skin rubbing against mine each time she takes a breath. I can smell the flowery shampoo in her damp hair, feel the softness of her breasts resting on my arm, and my cock throbs painfully against the curve of her ass, my body aching with the need to thrust inside her. She’d fight at first, but I could make her like it.

  She’s not immune to me. I know it. I sense it.

  Before the dark impulse can take over, I draw in a breath and let it out slowly. As good as it would feel to fuck Sara, I want her trust as much as her body.

  I want her to sing for me of her own accord.

  “Go to sleep, ptichka,” I murmur when she remains silent, all her questions choked off for now. “You’ll be safe tonight.”

  And ignoring the hunger raging through my body, I close my eyes and sink into a light but restful sleep.

  * * *

  I wake up three times during the night, twice when Sara tries to free herself from my embrace—undoubtedly to escape and do something painful to me—and once when she wakes up from a bad dream. I hold her tighter in each case, and she eventually falls asleep again. After a while, so do I, though the lust gnawing at me only grows more intense throughout the night. By morning, I’m ready to explode, and it takes all of twenty seconds to jerk off when I go use the restroom.

  She’s still asleep when I come out of the bathroom, and I contemplate getting back under the covers with her. However, it’s almost seven, and I want to catch up with Anton before he crashes for the day. I’m also not entirely certain of my self-control; the quick release barely took the edge off my violent craving for her.

  If I climb into bed with Sara again, I run the risk of breaking my promise.

  Deciding against tempting fate, I quietly dress and slip out of the room.

  I’ll see Sara again soon. In the meanwhile, there’s work to be done.

  Chapter 19

  Sara

  I have a scheduled C-section in the morning and an unscheduled one in the afternoon. In between, I see a woman who has painful menstrual cramps but can’t tolerate the usual remedy of hormonal birth control—something I empathize with very much—and another one who’s been trying to get pregnant for two years without much success. I schedule an ultrasound for the first one to check for endometriomas and refer the second one to a fertility specialist. As soon as I’m done with that, I get called to the ER to examine a six-months-pregnant woman who’s been in a bad car accident. Luckily, I’m able to tell her that the baby is healthy and kicking—the best possible outcome in a head-on collision of that magnitude.

  It surprises me that I’m able to focus on my work after last night, but for the first time in months, dark memories don’t invade my mind at every turn, and the paranoia of the past month is absent. Perversely, now that I know I’m being watched, the idea doesn’t fill me with as much anxiety as when I just had that unnerving sensation. I also feel well rested and alert with minimal caffeine consumption, and I suspect it’s because I got a solid nine hours of sleep despite the hard body wrapped around me all night.

  Or maybe because of it. No matter how hard I tried to stay awake last
night, the animal warmth coming off Peter’s skin and his even breathing lured me to sleep. I woke up a couple of times throughout the night to try to extricate myself from him, but it was impossible. He held me with the intensity of a child clutching his favorite teddy bear, and eventually, I gave in and simply slept, my subconscious mind blissfully unaware that the source of my nightmares was right next to me.

  In any case, whatever the reason, I remain calm and focused throughout my shift. It helps that I’ve managed to suppress all thoughts of Peter and his intentions, shoving them to the back of my mind while I concentrate on my patients. If I let myself dwell on his declaration, I would run out of the hospital screaming, and who knows what my stalker would do then? When I woke up alive and unharmed this morning, I decided that the best course of action is to take it one day at a time and avoid provoking him as much as I can.

  Maybe he’ll play nice for a while longer, and I’ll have time to figure out what to do.

  When my shift is over, I head to the locker room and run into Andy in the hallway. She must be just starting her shift, because her scrubs look perfectly pressed and her curly hair is drawn into a neat bun, without a single strand out of place.

  By the end of a long shift, most nurses and doctors—myself included—look far more disheveled.

  “Hey,” she says, stopping in front of me. “Everything okay?”

  I blink. “Um, yeah.” She can’t know about Peter, can she? “Why?”

  “You said you weren’t feeling well the other night,” Andy says, a small frown tugging at her forehead. “When you hightailed it from the club.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” I attempt an embarrassed smile. “I had too much to drink, and it hit me hard. I think I puked when I got home, but it’s all kind of fuzzy now.”