Page 33 of The Wrong Monster

The gasp that falls from my lips is real, despite all this going to plan.

Unfortunately, so is the rush of warmth between my legs as his thigh presses there. I twine my fingers in his short hair, rubbing his scalp, and use this leverage to let my lips drift to the edge of his ear. My tongue grazes his earlobe, and then I speak:

“Unless,” I whisper, “you’re planning to give them a show.”

His breathing changes. Only slightly, but it’s noticeable enough. His thigh presses firmly, and my clit aches in response.

God, if only he wasn’t a Bratva leader that kidnapped me. The things I’d do to this man…willingly.

He reaches into his pocket, removes a phone, and hits three numbers and a character. The red indicator light on the camera disappears. The same happens on the second one outside of the bathroom and pointing toward the wall with the window on it.

The silence feels oddly absolute now, knowing no one can see us.

“There,” he murmurs, his hands stroking my lower back. “Satisfied?”

Oh, I am far from satisfied, but I school my expression to keep him from seeing just how amped up this has me. This was not part of the plan.

“For now.”

I step back just enough to meet his eyes.

“I’ve thought about that night.”

The admission isn’t entirely a lie. It’s been eight days, and I’ve thought about it far more than I’d ever intended.

The hunger that lights his eyes is like an ember burning into mine. “So have I.” His hand finds mine, turning it over slowly in his palm. “Tell me something, Matty.”

“Hm?”

“Is there a man waiting for you in New York?”

The question catches me off guard, and the truth slips out honestly, easily: “No.”

His thumb brushes lightly across my knuckles. “Good.”

He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it almost sounds as if he’d expected no other answer.

I let the silence stretch, willing him to relax. To believe he’s lowered my defenses.

When his attention slips for the briefest fraction of a second, I move.

My knee drives upward as my hand reaches for his wrist, twisting hard in the direction Isla’s self-defense instructor had once demonstrated.

For one glorious heartbeat, I think it might work.

Then I’m reminded exactly who I’m dealing with.

Vasily catches my wrist before I can complete the motion, pivots effortlessly, and redirects my momentum. He lets out only a single grunt, barely reacting to the knee-to-the-groin.

The world tilts. The mattress meets my back.

He’s above me again, not angry. If anything, he’s almost amused by my persistence.

“I was beginning to think I’d chosen the wrong lawyer,” he says quietly, his voice low and dangerous as his eyes drag down my bracketed body.

I glare up at him, breathing hard.

“I’ll never stop trying.”