Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (8 page)

I tighten my thighs as his fingertip grazes the edge of my panties. At least I’m wearing a black lace thong this time—no grungy cotton tonight. “Better, how?” I ask. I pitch my voice low, painfully aware of my boss listening to our every word.

“I feel like myself. No—like the man I wish I could be.” Sergei leans in. His finger tugs at the elastic of my thong and slides against the edge of my folds. “The sort of man who’d make you proud. Not disgusted.”

“Trust me,” I gasp, gripping his thigh, “I’m far from disgusted right now.”

Someone clears their throat, and our server appears. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the sampler,” she says, eyes carefully averted from us. They must get trained for this exact situation. I blush and crush my thighs together, even as Sergei withdraws his hand. “Might I interest you in any dessert tonight?”

Sergei turns toward me. His expression is sharp with hunger; my own gaze feels dewy, delirious with my insane lust for this Russian god. I dig my nails into his thigh and nod carefully, my body answering every question he’s asking.

Yes. I’m ready for more. I want him.

“Actually,” Sergei drawls, answering the server in English, “we’ll have dessert back home tonight.”

The car service back to Sergei’s house feels interminable. He keeps his thick hand planted firmly beneath my butt, squeezing it when I least expect it, pressing his thumb up against my clit. I bite down hard on my tongue, but can’t help a few gasps from escaping. What is it that this man does to me? His devilish tongue, his sturdy muscles, his mischievous grin, and then that rock-hard cock, straining in outline against his jeans . . . I can’t get enough of him.

When finally we reach his place, he slings me up over his shoulder like I’m light as paper. I shriek in surprise and nearly drop hold of my purse. Fuck. The last thing I need is my phone to go spilling out. I try to zip my purse shut while my head and hands are dangling somewhere near his chiseled ass—no mean feat. My face must be bright purple from all the blood rushing toward it. He unlocks the townhouse and hauls me up three flights of stairs to the sprawling master suite.

“Wow, you actually have some furniture this time.” I try to applaud, but it’s not easy in my position. “I’m impressed.”

“Gotta look like a respectable man for you.” He slides me down in his arms and nestles me in the downy sheets of his heavy wooden sleigh bed. The room is otherwise pretty empty, but priorities, right?

I hook my fingers through the belt loop of his jeans and pull him toward the edge of his bed. “Maybe I don’t want ‘respectable’ right now.” I undo the buckle of his belt and unzip his fly, shivering as his thick cock juts free of his jeans.

Sergei closes his hand around my wrist, stopping me just short of gripping his shaft. His voice is husky; his eyes, dark and liquid. “And what,” he breathes, “just is it that you want right now?”

Time to delve into more Russian vocab we didn’t exactly practice in class. “I want you to fuck me raw.”

Sergei growls, and shoves out of his jeans and shirt. He climbs onto the bed beside me and pins my back to his chest, pulling me into his lap. He dives one hand between my legs as the other one cups around me to knead one of my breasts through the velvety fabric of my dress. His erection prods into the small of my back, and I arch against him, aching to feel him inside me again.

“So impatient,” Sergei whispers, as he pushes my panties to one side and probes my slick folds with his fingers. His teeth sink into the meat of my shoulder blade, bared by the cowl neck of my dress. “Your parents may be Brazilian, but you’re all American. You’ve got to learn . . . to savor.”

I cry out as he sucks at my back while his fingers slide deeper inside of me. Oh, I’m savoring. I’m drunk on the flames that lap at me from my belly, coaxing me further and further. I can’t get enough of this filthy man and his filthy fingers and his filthy, firm cock.

“That’s better.” Sergei pinches my clit between his fingers, eliciting a sharp cry from me. Pain and pleasure mingling together along my nerve endings. “Tell me you want it.”

“Please,” I whisper. “Fuck me now. Please.”

Sergei shoves me up out of his lap and forces me onto my hands and knees, my ass up into the air. I bury my face in a mass of pillows as he pushes the edge of my dress up and over my ass. “Now that,” he says, “is one lovely sight. His hand caresses my cheeks, then gives me a crisp swat.

“Oh, shit.” I clamp my teeth on a mouthful of pillow. “Please, Sergei. I’m ready. Fuck me now.”

I hear the crinkle of the condom wrapper as he tears it open and slips one on. He says something in Russian that I don’t understand—so quiet, it could almost be a prayer—then teases his head against my slick lips. Braces both hands on my hipbones. Slides one around to stroke my clit.

Then thrusts himself all the way inside of me.

I groan into the pillows as every inch of him fills me up. He holds there for a moment, grunting through clenched teeth, then pulls halfway out before slamming into me again. Holy shit, he’s so intense, buried deep inside of me, over and over, fingers working hard to get me off.

And it works. As he bites down on my bared back, the first orgasm rocks through me like an explosion, making me cry out and locking up all my muscles as he continues to thrust. Pins and needles rush through me, temporarily numb, as I ride the wave. Bask in the glorious afterglow.

Sergei slows his thrusts temporarily while I recover, then eases out of me and pulls me on top of him, facing him now. He positions my hips over his and guides me down onto his still rock-hard shaft and begins bucking up into me in a slow, steady rhythm. I claw at his flawless chest while I ride him; he cups my breasts, letting them bounce in his palms with each thrust, squeezing my nipples until they ache.

“Again,” Sergei growls. “I wanna feel you come again.”

It doesn’t take long. He pinches one nipple between his thumb and forefinger and twists until I cry out, and another orgasm washes over me. He grunts with each thrust as my pussy throbs with aftershocks around him.

Sergei’s wolfish grin rises up to meet me, and he nips at my lower lip. “
Molodtsa,
” he murmurs, before rolling back down onto his back. Sweat glistens across the swooping curves and channels of his pecs, his abs, and I want to lap it all up. I trail my tongue up to the hollow at the base of his throat and suck on his collarbone.

“Yes,” he snarls. “Yes. Oh, god, Jael, don’t stop—”

His hips are slamming up into mine in a furious frenzy. I don’t think I have it in me for a third orgasm, but the salty taste of him on my lips and his crazy firm muscles and that thick cock thrusting up into me—

Turns out I was wrong.

We come together, moaning into the night, Sergei’s baritone ringing out beneath my cries. His hands are like vises around my hips as he holds himself deep inside of me. Perfection. One solid moment of bliss to make all my other fears and frustrations vanish into background noise.

As the tumult inside of me subsides, I climb off of him and burrow into the downy white blankets of his bed. Sergei glides up from the mattress to go clean himself off, and dimly, I remember him climbing back next to me, fingers running down my spine, before I drift off into a deep, satisfied sleep like I’ve never known before.

I awaken to the shrill cries of my Tuesday and Thursday morning alarm, reminding me I have my Due Process and Criminal Proceedings class on campus in an hour. For a moment, I’m lost, swimming in a sea of white downy comforters and pillows and my own sweaty hair plastered to the side of my face. Where the fuck am I? Then I catch sight of the marble fireplace and lovely, empty master bedroom and fall back into bed with a grin. Sergei Drakonov’s bed. Of course.

I crawl back out of bed and search around for my purse, buried under a heap of clothing. Flick open my phone, though the first thing I see is that it’s still recording. Oh, Jesus. I turn that off, then swap over to the alarm to kill it, too. I have only a sliver of battery life left, but there’s a text message waiting for me from Sergei.

Working out in the basement. Stop down when you’re awake, beautiful.
 

I grin, then feel stupid about it and try not to, which only makes my grin bigger. Sergei Drakonov, Flawless Specimen, calling
me
beautiful. Doesn’t get much better than that.

Then I remember I’m supposed to be snooping for evidence of Vladimir Drakonov’s criminal dealings, and the smile dies on its own.

I slip Sergei’s button-down shirt on and pad through the master suite, phone ready to snap pictures. Distantly, I hear the bass rumble of rock music emanating from the basement. Hopefully it’s enough to cover the sound of me walking around. Sergei still hasn’t done much in the way of moving in. A few boxes of clothing in the gigantic walk-in closet—I think that thing is bigger than my entire basement studio—and a stack of shoes. Toiletries in the bathroom.

Toward the back of this floor, he’s set up a folding table and chair with a single laptop and an accordion file of paperwork. I try the laptop—password-protected. Of course. The accordion file, though . . . it looks like it’s been recently used.

Sure enough, in the front pocket, I find photocopied contracts for various freelance “consultants” Sergei has hired in the past week. Igor Kozlovsky for styling advice? Andrei Boikunin for personal security consulting? Sounds like what Chief Ha was talking about—an easy way to launder criminally obtained funds. Sergei hires them for random services, and “pays” them so they can now safely deposit their money into whatever bank account they like with a nice, clean paper trail.

I snap photos of the contracts, but that’s all I can manage without killing my battery life. After stashing my phone safely at the bottom of my purse, I head downstairs to find Sergei in the basement gym.

He’s working out to the hard Russian rock band Eks Sektor Gaza, wearing only gym shorts, socks, and shoes. I lean against the basement door frame, admiring the scenery: the network of muscles along his shoulder blades and spine working in effortless harmony as he works two strands of heavy steel chains, making them undulate across the floor. It’s a testament to human accomplishment, really, that a man can be so lusciously, gorgeously fit. A rivulet of sweat streams down his back and vanishes. My gaze traces its path down, over those rock-hard glutes lurking beneath his shorts . . .

Sergei’s gaze catches mine in the mirror on the opposite wall, and he grins as he winds down the exercise. “There you are. I was just finishing up.” He struts over to the stereo system and turns it down. “I need to shower, but how about we grab some breakfast before I have to head to practice?”

I sigh, shoulders falling. “I can’t. I have to clean up too, but then I’ve
got
to get to class.”

“You are looking pretty dirty.” Sergei wraps his arms around my waist and burrows his lips against the crown of my head. “It might take a lot of scrubbing to clean you up.”

I press one hand to his chest, admiring the nicks and scratches I left there the night before. They’ll heal up in no time, but it’s nice to know I’ve left my mark. “You’re one to talk, stinky.”

“Good luck getting me clean.” He lifts me into the air and cradles me to his chest, as if I weigh nothing. To him, I guess I do. “Because I’m thinking some filthy, filthy things right now.”

Oh, my
god
, do I ever need to get to class. But already I can feel the heat building between my legs; pressed against his firm chest, I can barely remember my own name, much less any other responsibilities I have. I reach down and cup his budding erection. “Then you’d better show me just what you have in mind.”

He carries me into the shower, and for another half hour, at least, I forget about schoolwork and the FBI and the Bratva as the hot water washes over us and Sergei and I explore each other until we’re panting and spent.