Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1) (27 page)

God, he felt good.

She shifted once more and got her wish.

"Fuck," he hissed, head thrown back as he slid out slightly and was sucked right back in by her little movements beneath him. "Lillian, baby –
fuck
."

Had she been able to say a word, she would have echoed that sentiment. Instead, she lifted her hips, a pressure in her chest releasing as if untied when he took her silent command and began to move. Not slow or easy or gentle in any way. It was hard and fast, him pounding deeply into her as they both cried out. Exactly what they'd both wanted for days – groaning, grunting, and slick, sweaty skin against slick, sweaty skin. He held her still to his thrusting hips, driving himself into her over and over. And yet, he never put any pressure on her bad leg or held her too roughly.

"So… good…" he grunted, "Christ… you feel so good."

Lillian had never felt anything like him before. The way he moved, the way his cock seared her even through the condom, the feel of him slamming himself inside her. This wasn't love. It went beyond that to some level of mania she'd never experienced before.

"Look at me, beautiful," he gasped when her eyes threatened to close.

The feelings he evoked in her were too intense to handle with his eyes locked on hers as he drove himself into her. In and out until she writhed beneath him all over again, gasping, crying out… ready to tumble over the edge into oblivion. Into more of this, and no way out.

"Look at me."

She shook her head, refusing to look at him as sensation built, focusing.

"Look at me, Lillian," he commanded, shifting his position to strike more deeply. "Now."

She arched off the bed, crying out at his pleasurable punishment. Her eyes flew open, landed on his, and she drowned all over again. Got swept right over the edge into blue-rimmed, hungry black, with no way out… just as she'd known would happen.

"You've always been different for me," he groaned, eyes locked on hers as he pumped into her, hitting every spot she didn't know she had. "From day one, beautiful."

Yes
. Oh God, yes.

"I'm not fighting it anymore," he said, pumping into her.

Her last clear thought was that she'd been absolutely right so many days ago. Special Agent Tristan Riley was a bigger danger to her than the Vetrov family could ever be. And she no longer cared, not with his hands all over her body and his cock buried to the hilt in her. Not with his eyes locked on hers and those little confessions falling from his lips.

"Come for me, baby," he said, reaching down to stroke her clit with his thumb as he continued to drill into her, his eyes locked on hers. "I need to feel it on my cock."

She came, unable to stop herself as he drove her into insensibility. Her inner walls clamped down around him. His name broke from her lips in a high pitched, keening cry.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned as his name echoed around them. He drove his cock into her. Once. Twice. Three times and then he cried her name too, holding her still as he came. His cock pulsed as he filled the condom, filled her body, and sent her barreling over the edge again.

"Hi," Lillian whispered, her eyes fluttering open to focus on him. Her hair was a tangle around her face, her cheeks flushed from sleep. Her gaze was soft and sleepy, the dilation of her pupils all but gone. She looked fucking perfect, and felt even better.

"Hi," he whispered back, dragging her toward him beneath the covers he'd dragged over them after disposing of the condom. "Welcome back."

"Mm," she groaned and stretched, snuggling into him.

There was no awkwardness between them for once, and he fucking loved that.

"How long was I out?" she asked, her voice still rough from sleep.

"Not long." He reached beneath the blanket and began rubbing her bare thigh. Familiar heat crackled everywhere their bodies met. "Feel okay?"

"Mm. Yes." She moved her leg closer to him. "A little sore."

"Here?" he asked, laying his hand over her scar.

Her cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with waking. "No worse than usual."

"Ah." He slid his hand up her thigh until his fingers glided through the silky curls between her legs. "Here, beautiful?" he asked, the question husky.

The way she whimpered when his hand brushed across her sent a thrill racing through him.

She jerked her head, her flush deepening.

Tristan couldn't help the smile that spread across his face at her reaction. He slid his hand from between her legs and back down her thigh to the scar, massaging the pitted, ruined muscle. She shifted, getting comfortable. Her eyes fluttered closed. Her breathing evened out, but not too deeply.

He let his eyes fall closed too, reveling in the silence. Christ, it was perfect. Not a muting of thought or a subtle easing of frustration, but a pervading quiet that reached deep inside. He knew shit he didn't want to think about, remember, or feel waited on the other side of this interlude. When she moved away from him, those things would invariably creep back in, and they'd make him feel as on edge and restless as ever. But so long as she curled up with him – the soft cadence of her breath in his ear and her warm body tucked close to his – those things didn't bother him. They were unimportant. Moot points that didn't affect him in the here and now, though they probably should have.

"What happened tonight, beautiful?" he asked, unable to stop the question.

She tensed and then relaxed with a small, unhappy sigh. She didn't open her eyes as she started to explain, her voice hesitant and halting. "I've been a dancer my entire life. It wasn't ever something I had to think about doing, it just
was
. I'd hear music and I wanted to dance. I
needed
to dance. And now that I can't do it anymore-" Her shoulders twitched in the semblance of a shrug, a frown on her face. "Sometimes, when I'm stressed, it feels like I'm paralyzed and staring down a train. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to move, and I can't. All I can do is stand there and feel the music pulsing in my chest. It's like knives slicing through me."

The quiet sorrow in her tone made his heart ache.

"That's what happened tonight?" he asked.

She nodded her head, eyes still closed. "Partly."

"And at
Teplo
? When I found you?"

"Yeah." Her frown deepened and she popped her eyes open, focusing on him. "I keep expecting it to get easier, but it never does. It gets a little harder every day."

"How so?" He lifted his free hand and traced the furrow in her brow with his fingertip.

"Because a year ago, I didn't really believe that I'd never dance again. I thought that if I worked hard enough, I'd prove the doctors wrong." Her gaze flickered across his face and then down. She traced the edges of his tattoo with her fingers. "But they were right. I'll never dance again. The only thing I ever wanted is gone and I have to learn to accept something I didn't choose. It's killing me."

Christ.

His heart hurt for her, for the simple way she said that, and the way her lip quivered when she did.

"So tonight," she continued, taking a breath, "I panicked, and I couldn't see either. But before that, I saw her kiss you, and I just…." She bit her lip and blushed. "It was just too much, you know? Everything hit me at once and I had to get away. But that clearly didn't go as planned. So yeah, that's what I get for reacting instead of thinking."

He didn't respond immediately, trying to process what she said as much as the way she said it. He'd always been good at reading people – he had to be – but reading Lillian wasn't so easy. When she let him in at all, she did so awkwardly, as if she didn't have a clue how to lower her defenses. Not looking at him, shrugging, shifting around as if she couldn't get comfortable. She didn't like being exposed… vulnerable. And really, who could blame her if she had trust issues after everything she'd gone through?

"Do you still want to back out, Lillian?" he blurted the question, not liking the way pieces of the puzzle suddenly fit together. Not liking the realization that all her bravado and argument was simply a defense mechanism. One he'd forced her to rely on.

Christ, he really was an idiot.

She frowned again, and his heart threatened to stop.

"It's okay if you do," he lied. He needed her in more ways than one, but if she didn't want to do this, well, he owed her the chance to walk away, guilt free. Hell, he owed her so much more than that.

"Here's the thing," she said, maneuvering herself until she could prop her head up on an elbow to look at him. "I'm scared, Tristan. I'm scared of what's going on across the street. I'm scared of what might happen me, and to you. I'm scared of walking through that door and being hit by the music as hard as I was tonight. I'm in way over my head, and that's terrifying for a whole lot of reasons. But that's not why I said I'd call Jason and tell him I'd changed my mind."

"Then why?"

"Because I already live my life wanting something I'll never be able to have. I'm not interested in doing it twice over." She spoke quietly, but damn did the words echo, sending ripples into places he'd rather not have rippling.

"I wasn't trying to force you into anything," she continued before he could formulate a response, "but I don't want to fight anymore. My whole life, I've been forced to fight whether I wanted to or not. I wasn't like the other dancers. I didn't care if everyone knew my name. I didn't care if I had a legion of fans. All I wanted to do was dance, and they made my life hell because of it."

Tristan took a deep breath, refusing to give in to the anger her confession sent through him. He couldn't change her past or make it hurt any less. He couldn't take away the memories she had of fighting for her right to dance. But he could help her now. He could give her what she wanted, what she needed.

"What can I do to make this easier, beautiful?" he asked. "What do you want?"

She met his gaze, her expression honest, intense… warm brown speaking volumes. "I want to stay here and help you without the constant back and forth. I want to stop fighting you and stop fighting me and not have to worry about what you want from me. I want
you
, Tristan."

For just a minute, time stood still. He didn't move. He didn't breath. He just stared into those beautiful brown eyes, feeling those four little words – I want
you
, Tristan – wind their way through him, changing everything. And then he took a deep breath, cupped her cheek in his hand, and gave her what she wanted. "Do you know how to shoot, sweetheart?"

She stared at him, not understanding what he meant. What he said in his own messed up way. He waited a full five count before the furrow between her brow smoothed and her eyes cleared, confusion replaced by surprise, and something he'd fucking kill to give her more of.

Hope.

"Yeah," she finally whispered, "I know how to shoot."

"Good. That's really good." His gaze tangled up in hers, devouring the expression on her face and committing it to memory. "Stay with me, beautiful. We'll figure it out." He had no frigging clue how he'd make this work – how he'd keep her safe, keep himself sane, and work the case at the same time, but he'd do it one way or another.

And the rest of it? All the other shit that stood like mountains between them?

Right then, it didn't fucking matter, he decided as she smiled at him, a simple "okay" falling from her lips.

He dragged her up his body, covering her mouth with his.

Chapter Nineteen

"I need a favor," Tristan said into the phone as soon as Jason answered. He stood in the doorway of Lillian's bedroom, his eyes locked on her sleeping form. Everything in him demanded he hang up the phone and crawl back into the bed with her, but he couldn't. Not yet.

"What now?" Exasperation and tired acceptance rang in Jason's tone.

"Lillian needs a concealed carry permit."

Jason was silent for a long moment and then he sighed. "You want her armed?"

No, but he couldn't think of a better way to keep her safe.

"What about the drops?" Jason asked.

"They were too much for her."

Lillian rolled over, the sheet slipping to expose her breasts. She didn't awaken. She simply sighed Tristan's name and then settled down. He ducked into the hallway before he really did say to hell with it and climb back into bed beside her.

"Does she even know how to shoot?" Jason demanded.

"Her father used to be a cop and she traveled the world by herself." He paused in front of a framed photograph of Lillian on the stage, spotlights shining upon her. She stood on the tips of her toes, one arm over her head. Happiness radiated from her. "Of course he taught her how to defend herself."

Jason didn't say anything.

"I'm taking her to the shooting range this morning to confirm. Can you get Davis to approve a permit?"

"Do you want a temporary or a permanent?"

Tristan bit back a relieved sigh that Jason wasn't even going to argue with him about this. "Permanent if you can get him to sign off on it," he said.

"I'll see what I can do. When do you need it?"

"Today."

"Fucking A, Tristan," Jason groaned into the phone. "Davis is going to be a dick about this, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." No way would he happily sit down and write out a permit for her without any notice. But he would write it because he wasn't stupid, either. If Lillian had to shoot to protect herself, Davis would be the one at the press conference trying to explain why a disabled ballerina had gone into
Teplo
on the DEA's watch with a weapon and no license.

"I can't take her in there without some sort of protection," Tristan explained. "She panicked at
Trinity
last night."

"Is she okay?"

"Fine, now. Look, just tell Davis that she's going in armed either way. If shit gets bad, it'll be easier for him if she has a valid permit."

Jason barked a laugh. "One of these days, he's going to make me fire your sorry ass."

"Probably," Tristan agreed, not particularly concerned about it.

"You're sleeping with her, aren't you?" Jason asked, his laughter dying.

Tristan tightened his grip on the phone, not ready to have that conversation with Jason, not after Jason had lied to her once already to keep them apart.

"Does it matter?" he asked.

His friend sighed. "Just be careful, man. This isn't her world."

Tristan blew out a heavy breath, and glanced back up at the photograph. Guilt crashed down on him again. "She was ready to quit, but I asked her to stay. Do you know how messed up that is, Jase? I actually
asked
her to stay."

"You care about her."

"That makes it right?" Tristan didn't even bother to deny the truth. He did care. That was the fucked up thing about the situation. He cared.

"No, but it does make you human. Does she regret getting involved?"

"Not yet."

"Then let it go," Jason advised. "Out of everyone I know, you're the one I'd bank on keeping her safe. Stop driving yourself up the fucking wall worrying about something you won't let happen, and do what you have to do to close this case."

"And when it's over?" he asked, pacing up and down the hall. He'd never concerned himself with the future before, but he couldn't stop thinking about it now. What was he supposed to do when this case ended? How the hell was he supposed to just walk away from her, back to his old life, when every day, he felt like he needed her a little more?

"Jesus. How the hell do you do this every day?" he asked before Jason could answer. "It's been three days since she agreed to help and I'm going out of my mind. But you've been doing this with Zoë for years and you never stress. Not about your team. Not about her getting caught in the middle because of you. Not about anything."

"Oh, I stress," Jason said drily. "Is being with Lillian worth the anxiety?"

Was it?

"Yeah," Tristan answered with conviction, blowing out a breath. "Yeah, it is."

"Then you deal. I'm not saying that's going to be easy. With her past and yours, dealing with putting her in the line of fire will be hard as hell. But you either walk away or you man up. And since you aren't willing to walk away, I suggest you put your big boy undies on and do whatever it takes to keep the two of you safe. And once you've done that? Then you figure out what comes next. Until then, it doesn't matter."

Except it did matter. It mattered to him. "Tell me this is going to work out," he said.

"You'll keep her safe."

"Christ, I hope so."

Silence hung on the line for a moment before Tristan cleared his throat.

"Has Kincaid found anything?"

"We're raiding a fucking laundry mat tonight, but it's not your guy."

"He hasn't heard anything?"

Jason didn't respond.

"Dammit, Jase," Tristan said. "You know I'll just call him myself if you don't tell me."

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that? Fucking hell," Jason swore. "Kincaid mentioned a rumor about another Chinese-run business selling X out of the back room to some new operation in town, but the intel isn't solid. When it is, you'll be the first to know. Just let him do his job. Jesus, Tristan. You never know when to leave shit alone, do you?"

"You're in a bad mood this morning," Tristan said, but didn't push the issue or deny that accusation. They didn't pay him to give up or leave shit alone. They paid him to keep pulling strings until something fell out.

"Yeah, well, I have to have a team ready to raid a laundry mat in six hours so when we do find your guy, they don't figure out what we're really after. Every damned X dealer we can find, we're taking down so you can do what you have to do." Jason cursed again. "Why the fuck can't this job ever be easy?"

"Good question."

Jason snorted.

"Any idea what kind of business it is?"

"A grocery store? A tourist shop? A restaurant? I don't know. Christ, just let-"

"A restaurant?" Tristan interrupted, pausing mid-step.

"Possibly."

"Motherfucker!"

"What now?"

Tristan spun on his heel, striding toward his room and the case file spread across the desk there. He grabbed the stack of credit card statements Kalani Abram's sister had found hidden in a box of noodles in Kalani's kitchen, quickly shuffling through them until he found the one he needed. His heart hammered, excitement firing through him for the first time in days.

"Tristan?"

"There's something… A
Fu Lin's
on 83rd. It replaced
China House
in Anton's credit card statements about four months ago. They were billed for the lunch buffet twice a week for the last four weeks Kalani worked for Anton."

"You're sure?"

"Fuck yes, I'm sure. I went over the statements three times yesterday." He hadn't been able to figure out why Kalani had hidden the statements when they contained nothing incriminating, but he'd kept the damn things anyway.

"
Fu Lin's
is eight blocks from here."

"And you think they might be running drugs out of the back?"

"I don't know, but the fact that she hid the damn statements isn't something to sneeze at. If they are the front and she figured out what she was picking up for Anton when he sent her there, it'd explain why she hid them. And why Anton had her killed."

"Yeah, but Anton wouldn't have delegated that task to Kalani unless he was certain of her loyalty."

"Doesn't matter," Tristan argued, skimming the statement for any other irregularities. Nothing immediately stood out. "They wouldn't even have to be buying from the restaurant, but someone there could be the point man for whomever they are purchasing from. Come on, Jase. She didn't hide the statements for the hell of it, and you know it. She figured out what they were up to, and that's why she's dead."

Anton Vetrov ran his life like clock-work. Same suits, same dry cleaner, same restaurants, same Mercedes upgrade every two years. That careful paranoia had kept the asshole out of prison thus far. But Kalani hadn't quit for no reason, and they hadn't murdered her for the hell of it, either. There was something in those statements that Vetrov hadn't wanted anyone to find, and Tristan had a feeling
Fu Lin's
was it.

Jason knew it, too.

"I'll give the information to Kincaid and have him look into it," he promised.

Tristan glanced at the photo of Paulo Vetrov and Pedro Francisco. Had Paulo killed Kalani? Or had Anton done it himself? He didn't know, but the thought of letting either of them near Lillian turned his blood to ice.

Un-fucking-fortunately, he didn't have another option, either.

Half an hour later, Tristan found Lillian sitting in the middle of the floor in her little studio, a look of intense concentration on her face. She existed entirely in her head, reliving memories he couldn't even begin to guess at. The way she tilted her head back and forth as the music swelled and receded, he kind of figured she was right there with it though.

He let her have that moment, instead letting his gaze wander across her form… remembering the way she felt wrapped around him, crying out for him. Even now, he wanted to be inside of her so badly, it was torture. Her body flowed from stretch to stretch beneath the leotard she wore, taunting him. The soft, graceful line of her neck begged to be covered with his mouth. So did her pert breasts as she took one deep breath after another, oblivious to the way her nipples pressed against the thin fabric she wore.

Tristan planted his feet, refusing to give in to the urge to strip her naked right there. She needed a break, and if he touched her, there was no way he'd be able to take it slow. Not like he wanted to, and he did want to. The thought of making slow, languid love to her appealed to him on levels he couldn't even begin to comprehend. He wasn't complaining though. Putting his mouth all over her body certainly wouldn't be a hardship. Far from it.

He groaned at the memory of her writhing beneath him.

She stopped mid-stretch and turned to look at him. Heat crept into her cheeks, turning them that dusty rose color he loved. "Hey," she mumbled, quickly averting her gaze.

He frowned, stepping into the room. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Liar." No way did she get to go back to half-truths and evasions now.

"It's nothing. I just didn't realize you were there."

"So?"

"It's weird." She grimaced, her hands fluttering at her sides.

Tristan pursed his lips, studying her. She avoided looking at him, instead smoothing an invisible wrinkle in her leotard. The blush in her cheeks deepened.

Why was she embarrassed?

"Talk to me, beautiful."

She hesitated a moment and then gave in. "Once a month, Madame Goffe would open our practices to the kids studying at the school associated with the Company. Those who performed well during the week would line up along the walls and watch us warm up, imaging themselves in our positions." She frowned, a soft sigh stirring the fine hairs framing her face. "No one except my therapist has watched me stretch since."

"I love watching you move."

"I'm not very graceful." Her gaze rested on her scar and then darted away. "Not anymore."

Tristan hated the sad, shamed frown twisting at her lips. Striding across the room to her, he held his hand out. "Come here."