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Withdrawing it from the holster, he held it up with an exasperated sigh and set it on the bathroom counter. “Rule #3. No weapons in the bedroom.”
“This isn’t the bedroom,” I countered.
“Wherever you’re getting your dick sucked is the bedroom from now on.” He grabbed my hips with both hands and shoved me against the counter before tearing open the front of my jeans.
“You don’t seem to realize how many guns I actually have.” I slumped against the counter as he dropped to his knees and my head hit the mirror when he sucked my cock into his mouth. “Fuck, Roan.”
Working my jeans down, he tugged a pant leg off one at a time, giving himself more room to maneuver.
Seeing him on his knees in front of me again, his perfect mouth sliding up and down my length, his tongue massaging me, was still like something out of a dream. At times I couldn’t believe it was real, but then he’d squeeze my balls or graze his teeth along my dick and I was reminded it was, indeed, reality.
He kept his eyes upward, watching me intently. That look, the lust in his eyes, was somehow better than the things he was actually doing, because it was forme—Iwas the reason for that desire.
Slipping both hands on either side of his throat, I pulled him up by his jaw and kissed him hard before forcing myself to tear away. “I need you. Now.”
“So what are you waiting for?” He smirked, kissing me again and nipping my bottom lip.
Before I could punish him for that smart ass remark, someone pounded on the front door.
We both turned, eyes wide, toward the sound.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Stay here,” I said, grabbing my jeans and yanking them on quickly. Shoving the gun back into place, I closed the bathroom door and cleared my throat, heading toward the pounding.
“Who is it?” I asked in Russian.
“Misha Chernyshevsky.”
Fuck.
Steeling myself for the worst-case scenario, I opened the door and gestured for him to come in. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here for business,” he replied, shaking my hand once he was inside.“There’s been some trouble lately and I’m following up with all of our contacts.” Smoothing down the front of his blue suit, he wandered further into the apartment, looking over every inch with a curious expression.
“What kind of trouble?” Shit.shit.shit.
He spun on his heel and turned toward me, his sky-blue eyes narrowing on my abdomen. “Is everything alright?”
“Mhmm.” I should have put my shirt back on. Damn it. In my defense, I wasn’t expecting it to be Misha, or anyone else whose questions I was compelled to answer.
“What happened here?” He took a step closer, his splayed fingers hovering over the fresh bruise, like he was measuring the size. About a twelve US, if I had to guess. When his eyes flicked up again, I held his curious gaze for a minute before answering.
“Street fight.”
“Did you win?” He dropped his gaze and picked up my right hand, studying my swollen knuckles.
“I always win.” I yanked my hand out of his and folded my arms over my chest. “Why are you here, exactly?”
“Someone killed two of our associates today. I wanted to make sure you were alright. And to see if you have heard anything?”
I shook my head. “As you can see, I’m fine.”
“I do see. I also see a pretty nasty cut. Was it a knife?” Misha’s gaze swept over me again, his finger skimming along the length of my left forearm.
“Glass,” I answered flatly. There was no point in lying about that. A man with Misha’s experience would be able to tell the difference between a clean cut and the jagged mess on my arm.
His eyes narrowed briefly, but then he blinked and smiled, clasping his hands behind his back. “Did you know your boss called my boss today?”
