Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (8)

Say no, I’m begging myself silently. As confident and forward as Isaak is, I have a good feeling that he’ll relent if I can just summon up that one little syllable.

But it’s caught in my throat. Won’t budge. Won’t move.

I try and try and try to say it and for a moment, it feels like it’s almost there, right on the tip of my tongue…

And then Isaak grazes my clit over the thin material of my Victoria’s Secret panties, and the word No disappears like a wisp of smoke.

I gasp and shudder and clench Isaak’s shoulders so I don’t collapse to my knees. It’s been a long time since a man touched me.

And even then, it was never like this.

“You’re wet,” he rumbles in my ear.

I tremble. But I’m past the point of embarrassment now. The only thing I can focus on is the feeling of his fingers, tap-dancing against my lips.

I shake my head, but I have no idea what I’m meant to say. Another man might have earned a slap.

But this man… If he wanted the fucking moon, he’d probably find a way to wrangle it from the sky.

I gasp again as he pulls aside the crotch of my panties and gives one teasing caress up my slit. My mouth rounds into a perfect, silent O when he parts me and slides a finger inside.

He moves painfully slowly. More patient than I would’ve ever thought possible. I nearly black out, and when I come to again one breath later, I realize I’m grinding my hips into his palm. My forehead is pressed against his muscled chest.

His name falls from my lips like a prayer. “Isaak…”

Chuckling, he pulls out slowly. Removes his hand from underneath my skirt.

And licks my juices right off the tips of his fingers.

“Sweet,” he says. “Just as I suspected.”

My jaw drops. “Who the hell are you?” I manage to gasp.

He smirks secretively. “Come with me and maybe you’ll find out.”

“I may read about heroines,” I say quietly. “But that doesn’t make me one.”

“Then isn’t it about time you changed that?”

He takes half a step backwards and holds out his hand to me. I miss his closeness, his warmth, his scent.

But it’s right there. He’s right there for the taking.

If I just let myself be brave.

So I eye his waiting hand for a moment before I slip my fingers into his palm.

He starts to pull me away, but a sudden thought crosses my mind. I dig my heels in. Isaak stops, turns to face me. “Why do you want this?” I blurt out. “Why me?”

His eyes shimmer. “I’ve never had much willpower when it comes to my vices.”

I frown. “So I’m a vice now?”

“Without a fucking doubt.”

Before I can ask for an explanation, he pulls me through the door of the restroom in the hall just behind him.

It’s awash in white and gold. Marble countertops, golden inlay and taps, copper accents everywhere you look. The light comes from flickering candles set into sconces along the walls. The scent of lilac dances through the air.

Isaak strides into the middle of the space, then turns and surveys me. He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand.

“Those eyes,” he murmurs to himself.

“My parents both have brown eyes,” I say for some stupid reason. “So no one knows how I inherited this color. Mom claims that her mother had greenish eyes, but I never met her so I can’t say for sure.”

I know I’m rambling. But all the nervous energy inside me needs an outlet. It needs to devour the silence so that there won’t be room for him to do something I won’t be able to stop.

He had admitted to being important.

He had admitted to being dangerous.

And I’m the horny fool who walked into an empty bathroom in a deserted restaurant to be with him.

“She was the only grandparent I never met,” I continue with my babbling. “She died when my mother was a little girl.”

“Do you always chatter when you’re nervous?” he asks, his fingers running through the locks of my hair.

“To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous before.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Then he leans in and presses his lips to mine.

Even though I’m expecting it, the kiss comes as a shock. His lips are full-bodied but gentle, still faint. He lingers for a moment before pulling me against his body and deepening it. His tongue flicks past mine. He tastes like whiskey and mint.

Isaak pulls away slightly. “If you want to walk away now, you can,” he tells me.

“Would you even offer if you thought I’d take you up on it?”

His eyebrows arrow downward into a frowning V. “The choice is always yours, Camila.”

The way he says my full name in that faint Russian accent of his makes me shudder. No one has ever said it quite like that. He makes it his own. He makes me his own.

“Are you always so sure of yourself?” I ask.

“Always.”

“Must be nice.”

He grins. But he knows one thing: I’m not going anywhere.

Gripping my hip with one huge hand, he reels me into him again. This time, the kiss is more passionate, more aggressive. His lips plunder mine as he paws at my waist. He walks me backward. I stop only when my back hits the cool marble of the countertop.