So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(35)

“You can never stray long from that subject, can you?”

“Men think of it often, yes. I am just a slave to my gender. My offer is still open, you know.”

Oxygen was at a premium. He was far too close. “What offer?”

“To apologize. With my cock.”

Oh, she got it now. There was no apology on the table. This was purely Vadim Petrov trying to prove he was top dog, the man who could make a woman’s panties drop with a smile and a wink.

“You raging dingus! You’re not interested in ‘my disappointment’ or in making up for that first terrible time. All you care about is that there are women living in this universe who didn’t go off into the stratosphere when your dick made its debut inside their vaginas.”

“Only one woman, Isobel.”

She scoffed. “So sure.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t know back then. You just assumed tectonic plates shifted because, like all men, you imagine you’re the epicenter of the orgasm earthquake. As long as you feel the earth move, to hell with everyone else.”

Nothing but aristocratic hauteur from him now. “I am trying to be nice—”

“Nice? You just said you only recognize nice because you’re the opposite!”

He curled a hand around her neck, his touch shockingly sensual. “Then I shall be the opposite. I shall be very, very bad, Isobel.”

She wanted to say something about how “bad” wasn’t the opposite of “nice,” but this wasn’t an appropriate time for an English lesson. Her pulse stuttered, then gathered strength, a relentless pounding of yes, yes, yes. He must have heard it because, the next second, his lips crashed into hers, taking control as if it was his right.

But she knew better, didn’t she? She knew that Vadim Petrov was all smoke and mirrors, style without substance, a man whose only focus was his own pleasure.

Boy could he kiss, though.

This wasn’t your standard teenage fumbling. This was a man who knew exactly what to do with his mouth. Probably all that practice over the years, she thought bitterly.

The bitterness melted in the face of a wildfire consuming her body. Pure, white-hot need. Maybe the owner of the lips didn’t matter. Maybe it was just a joining together of body parts that worked in this never-to-be-repeated moment.

He halted, his expression impossible to read in the shadows.

“It is bad, yes?” His breathing was labored.

“Terrible,” she murmured. “Again.”

She expected him to say something cutting, but he surprised her.

He did as he was told.

He didn’t taste like the boy she remembered. She thought she’d committed everything about that experience to her soul, both the bad and the good, yet Vadim’s mouth was different now. He was different.

This kiss . . .

. . . different.

Spicy and sweet, authoritative yet testing. It cracked open something. Not inhibition, because that had never been her problem, but reticence. With other men, she would hold back, waiting for the sparks to fly. If it didn’t ignite within a few seconds, she was already moving on, steeling herself for the disappointment that would come later.

Vadim’s kiss blew her wariness away. If it was this good, then the rest . . . No, that was not going to happen.

He was an employee, a coworker, a tabloid manwhore, sort of a dick, and the guy who took her virginity and did a piss-poor job of it. If none of these reasons were enough to put a halt to this nonsense, then she was in deep freakin’ doo-doo.

“Well?” he asked, though there was no missing the blink back to reality of his eyelids. He was just as affected as she.

“You want a score?” she panted. “Seven point four. The French judge marked you down. Too much tongue.”

This appeared to delight him, delight coming in the form of a lift at the corner of his decadent mouth. “It seems we both have lessons to learn. Again.”

In a flash, he had pulled her across into his lap—okay, she may have helped because this couldn’t not continue. Strangely, the snark fired her up. That hadn’t been their thing before, but maybe his time in North America had improved his personality.

She liked this version of Vadim. She liked it very much.

She also liked his positioning of her core over his erection. His hands kneading her ample ass to bring her closer was another check in the “like” column. And, additionally, helping her improved opinion of him was his mouth back on hers, sucking, testing, exploring.

“Again,” he murmured.

“Again,” she sighed right back into his mouth.

Again.

Rubbing her center against him was divine.

His hands everywhere were divine.

That mouth . . . oh, God, that mouth was ten steps above divine.

And then that mouth was speaking Russian, rough, sexy, sweet nothings that drove her wild. Forced out all common sense. His mouth trailed her jaw, delivering little nips and hot licks to her neck.

“Bella”—something in Russian—“Bella”—more Russian—“Bella.” As if one language was inadequate to express how she affected him.

She heard the scrape of her track jacket zipper, felt tingles as he applied openmouthed kisses to newly exposed skin. Her nipples were on fire, sensitive and needy. Can’t stand this. Going to die. She ripped her bra strap off her shoulder and freed one aching breast.