Avenge: #3 Romanian Mob Chronicles (6 page)

L
ily

I
t had been midmorning
before I’d made it back to my apartment, and I was grateful to be away from the Constantins. This apartment wasn’t my home, nowhere was, but I was as relaxed here as I had ever been.

I hadn’t realized how tense and draining being in that house was, how much worse it was when Christoph Junior was there. But I did realize and acknowledge that I’d come to find some comfort with Christoph Senior and his wife, not friendliness, but we’d fallen into a pattern, had developed some of the familiarity that was a byproduct of spending so much time together. I didn’t like it, had found myself having to repeat the reminder of why I was there, what my goal was, more than I ever had before.

And worse, Anton had wormed his way into my consciousness—the memory of him so close, the thought of what it would be like to touch him. I was losing sight of what I needed to do, knew that I was again on the verge of failing Braden, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of him, tried to latch onto the lie that my attraction to him didn’t mean anything.

So I lay in bed trying to remember, remember Braden’s face, the pain when they’d told me he wouldn’t wake up, the promise I’d made to him.

Tried and failed.

Because instead of Braden, of pain, of anger, all I could focus on was Anton. How he’d looked at me, what it would be like if he were here. How it would feel if he touched me.

Boom. Boom.

I sat upright, frowning at the knock on the door.

No one came here. Ever. Not even the landlord had ever knocked.

Wary and more than a little worried, I headed toward the door, for some reason trying to be quiet, though I couldn’t say why. When I reached the door, my heart was in my throat, and when I looked through the peephole, my lungs squeezed tight. I moved away quickly and then checked again, confirming what I had seen.

It was him.

Anton was here.

Why?

For a fleeting moment, my mind drifted back to the Constantins’ kitchen, how close I’d been to him, how much I’d wanted to touch him. Pushing the thought away took physical effort, and I laid my hand against the wall and dropped my head, sealing my eyes shut as I stepped into my role. Not the real me, neither the part that wanted to kill him nor the part that wanted to fuck him.

No, I needed to be her, sweet little Lily who made tea and gave breathing treatments. One breath and my mask was firmly in place.

I unlocked and opened the door quickly. “Has something happened to Mr. Constantin?” I asked, my voice brimming with concern that wasn’t entirely false.

He frowned slightly and then pushed past me to enter, not answering my question. I watched him as he looked around, his face betraying nothing of what he thought of the place.

“Well?” I said after a moment, my voice breathy, slightly high-pitched. I hoped he would take it as irritation at his intrusion, almost as much as I wished it actually were. It wasn’t, though, not in the slightest. The hitch in my breath was caused by the tightening in my chest, and the tightening in my chest was caused by him.

He turned to face me, his gaze capturing mine. “No. He’s fine, or as fine as can be expected.”

I tilted my head. “So then?” I let impatience bleed into my voice. I wanted him to stay, which meant I
needed
him to leave.

“What?” he said, his voice low and rumbling.

“Why are you here?” I said, my own voice low, breathy.

“Why did you say that?” he asked.

I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders. “Can you be more specific?” I said, voice still low but edging with frustration, my annoyance now real. He had to go, but he seemed in no hurry, and I didn’t have the reserves necessary to fend off my own desires while trying to interpret his words.

“Why did you call Christoph my father?” he finally said.

I remembered the moment well, but stayed mute, not sure how to respond.

“You remember,” he said, a statement and not a question.

Seemed he was in no mood to let me off the hook. “I don’t know. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said rather lamely, my concentration slipping with each second that passed. Anton had come to my home, was asking me questions, something that should have had me insane with worry. Instead, I was preoccupied with how much he filled my home, how much I wanted him in my bed.

“But what made you think it?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

I shrugged again. “You look alike. Same eyes. I just figured…” I trailed off, watching him for a reaction.

He said nothing, his expression rigid. I wasn’t sure what I expected, maybe anger, maybe a mild correction, something, but he just watched me.

“Well…if there’s nothing else,” I said, moving toward the door.

His hand on my arm stopped me, his grip strong but not punishing, turning me to face him.

“What is it?” I whispered.

He pulled me to him, my feet lifting without conscious thought on my part, and soon I was standing close to him, pressed against him.

I’d wanted this, dreamed of it in fact, and the reality was better than I could have imagined. We barely touched, but his body was strong, warm against mine. Warm enough to make me want to sink into it, make me want to forget who he was.

Anton, people like him, gave no thought to life, would have killed me without a second thought. That alone should have been enough to make me break away.

I moved closer.

And worse, being here, wanting him as much as I did, was the ultimate betrayal, of Braden, of myself, of all that I had dedicated my life to.

I inched even closer, and it would be so easy to give in, to take what he offered.

I looked up into those glittering dark eyes, saw a softness, a longing there that I might have believed I’d imagined had it not stayed. And I saw something else too, saw his desire, his promise of pleasure. I wanted that pleasure.

It was wrong, a betrayal, but I wanted it nonetheless.

I let out a sigh, the sound breathy, desire-filled, one that I had never heard from myself. Anton dropped his gaze to my lips and then slowly, ever so slowly, he moved forward, the tightly coiled muscles of his arms moving against my back, his manly scent enveloping me.

Then he stopped, his lips millimeters above mine, and lifted his gaze to mine. The desire I saw swirling there sent my own spiking into the stratosphere.

When he grazed his lips across mine, I sighed again.

I wasn’t sure what I expected, had nothing to compare it to, but the feeling of his mouth against mine, his strong arm around my waist, sent my thoughts scattering, my mind filled with only the need to have more of the sensation. He pulled me closer then, crushing my breasts against the solid wall of his chest, his arm now a vise around my waist, but one that I welcomed, feared I would come to crave.

He felt immovable, and I was trapped, but in the most delicious way, and I couldn’t ever imagine wanting to escape his hold. And when he eased his tongue into my mouth, the action a mix of coaxing and commanding, any remaining tendrils of resistance were drowned in a flood of the desire he created.

With a passion and precision that didn’t surprise me at all, he kissed me, left no centimeter of my mouth untouched. When he pulled back and placed soft kisses at the corners of my lips, then moved out to kiss my cheeks, my chin, the tip of my nose, I was a bundle of nerves in his arms, anxious, needy for him to continue.

I peeled my eyes open, barely able to lift my lids, and when my gaze met his, my heart thudded even harder. His eyes, always dark, now swirled with desire, his own lids heavy, his need apparent. He pulled me tighter to him, and I felt his solid muscle against my chest, the insistent press of his hardness against my stomach.

My eyes flew open wider then, and I looked at him closer, saw the pulse of his heart at his neck, the slightly jagged edge to his breath, the tension that seemed coiled through his entire body. I lifted my hand tentatively, laid it against his biceps, right at the place where fabric gave way to skin. I closed my fingers slightly, testing the hardness of his muscle covered with silky-soft skin.

When he pressed his lips against my cheek, I took it as a sign of encouragement and squeezed tighter, but then I trailed my fingers along his arm, tracing the pattern of ink that I had only seen in fleeting glimpses.

I knew what those markings were, knew what they meant, but in this moment, I couldn’t think of it—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was him, touching him, having him touch me.

I dropped my hand, looked up at him, hoping to regain my equilibrium, hoping to remember what I was doing, but all I saw there was desire, the feelings that were reflecting what I felt, and I was powerless against them.

He slid his lips against my cheek, moved lower to again cover my mouth, and when he tightened his arms around my waist, I lifted my legs, instinct guiding me.

He settled me so that I was centered over his erection, and the sensation of Anton against me so intimately was my undoing.

I tightened my legs, pulling as close as I could possibly be, and then I met his eyes again, saw the question there.

I nodded and watched him as he processed my response to the unasked question, saw the moment when he too was lost.

And then he was moving, the compactness of my apartment leaving only a few options. He reached my small bedroom in seconds, paused long enough to look around before refocusing his gaze on me.

There was a fleeting moment of embarrassment when I thought about what he was seeing. I had never been one for frills, and in this place they had seemed even less essential. So all there was was a cheap, prefab bedroom suite, the full-size bed covered with a duvet and sheet set that were sold in a package deal.

I’d never cared for such things, but now I wished I had, wished that I was in a beautiful, fantasy place, and not here, not among the belongings of Lily Holan, a nurse with a grudge.

But then again, I wasn’t that, not now, something I was reminded of when Anton slipped his hand under my shirt. His fingers were rough, and the sensation of them against me coaxed out a broken moan, the little fissures that his calloused fingertips were creating intense beyond anything I had ever felt.

His ascent up my body was slow, unhurried, but I felt the slight tremor in his hands, looked up to meet his eyes and again saw the desire there. My curtains were slightly parted, and the sun hit Anton where he stood, lighting his always-dark eyes and his face, giving him an almost supernatural appearance.

I decided then that I would think of this in that way. It was supernatural, divorced from the real world, a moment in time, unexpected but one that I would allow myself to enjoy, no matter how wrong it might be.

I turned my lips up in a small smile, one that he returned. The combination was breathtaking, made my heart pound even harder, and took Anton from grim handsomeness to almost ethereal beauty.

And, at least for this moment, he was mine.

I reached for the hem of his shirt, my own hand trembling, and pulled it up slowly, eyes glued to his. I broke his gaze when my fingers touched bare skin, and I kept my eyes riveted there as I revealed more of him.

Tight abdominal muscles sprinkled with dark hair. Strong, heavy-muscled pecs displayed his strength.

I let go of the shirt when it was up around his shoulders, and he took over, pulling it the rest of the way off.

He was beautiful.

Not a word I would have associated with him, but it was the only thing I could think as I watched him, bare-chested, in front of me. He was beautiful, each ridge of defined muscle perfection. And so was the ink that covered him.

I traced my fingers along the markings, moving slowly over each of the letters, then the pictures, the flowing script or etched images seeming to be a part of him that had always been there.

Even knowing what they meant, where they were from, I couldn’t deny their beauty, couldn’t pretend that they didn’t make a body that was already a monument to masculine perfection that much better.

After I settled my fingers at his waistband, I met his eyes again. And what I saw there, the mix of patience and desire, left me even more dizzy than I had been before, a feeling that only intensified when he tugged at my shirt much as I had his.

He moved slowly, revealing my skin bit by bit, and when the shirt was around my shoulders, I took over, somewhat impressed that I even had the ability to handle such a simple task given the strength of the sensations that flowed through me.

I dropped the shirt and let my arms fall to my sides, not sure what to do, not sure that I could do anything under his intensely scrutinizing gaze.

He stroked those calloused fingers across my collarbones and then down my chest, letting his fingers rest at the line that separated my skin from my bra. Then he teased that line, slipping from the edge of my bra strap to the crease that separated my breasts and then back again, the touch light, almost playful, but utterly devastating.

My nipples were puckered tight, the diamond points pushing at the satin of my bra cup. I sucked in a breath when he moved his fingers down, barely grazed one bud, and then moved his finger back and forth, worrying at the tight ridge until I thought I would go mad with the sensation that he was creating.

He relented, but only briefly until he moved to the other, giving it the same attention, moving in that light back-and-forth pattern until my chest heaved with my breaths, and I squirmed, slamming my thighs together if only to relieve some of the pressure that threatened to explode.

I tightened my own fingers around his waistband, looked up to meet his gaze.

His eyes were still filled with desire, but he was calm, far too calm, so in a moment of need driven by the desire to have him feel at least some of what I did, I dropped my hand, let my fingers trail along the hard ridge in his pants, watched as he responded, watched as he clenched his jaw tight while his lips softened.

Then he smiled again, smoothed one hand across my chest as he lifted the other up my arm, and when he had his hands on the straps of my bra, he pulled down slowly, working first the straps and then the cups down until my breasts were exposed.