Page 21 of Then We Shatter

I tap two fingers to my forehead in salute, but Shelley’s shaking her head as she leaves me to wait for her cue.

After slipping off my suit jacket, I roll up the sleeves of my black button-down, revealing the Celtic swirls that flow around a collection of images inked over my upper body.

Shelley had suggested I wear their uniform, but no way am I putting on a tunic. I should be safe enough in the salon. I’ve reconfigured the security cameras so they only connect to a local network, meaning the Bratva can’t access them remotely, nor can the Griffins. Walking around Chicago might pose more of a challenge, but as I rummage around the closet, I spot a series of boxes on the top shelf that might help me remain undercover. Wigs.

When it comes to avoiding attention, I’m not sure long flowing locks are the answer, but then my gaze snags on a stack of black and gold boxes with masculine sounding names. Who knew wigs had names? I pull them off the shelves and after a little trial and error, I settle on Patrick. A good Irish name.

Katarina arrives with the subtly of a tornado. I can hear her yelling at her bodyguards from out in the corridor. It’s all in Russian, reminding me I need to research some curse words. She’s bound to use them on me at some point. Probably in the next few minutes.

I tug at my wig, which is already itching by the time Shelley escorts Katarina and her entourage into the therapy room. One of her bodyguards will be sweeping the area, and my hand rests on the gun in my shoulder holster as heavy footsteps pass the hidden door. A moment later, a door closes.

There are murmured voices, but both are female. I go to put my ear to the door to listen, but Shelley saves me the trouble by raising her voice. “I don’t suppose there are many men who could win an argument with you.” She’s letting me know Katarina has been separated from her henchmen.

“Some men just need a firm hand,” Katarina agrees. “And luckily I have two.”

They share a laugh, and I suspect Katarina’s giving a demonstration of how she’d strangle her guards’ necks, but that doesn’t stop my thoughts traveling south and imagining those hands strangling my cock instead. When Shelley tells Katarina to undress behind a screen, I’m so hard against my zipper, I have to grit my teeth.

They discuss Katarina’s favorite essential oils – lavender and chamomile – and a few minutes later, there’s the mechanical hum of the massage table being adjusted. She’s about to lie down on the bed. I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to last.

When the secret door finally creaks open, Shelley catches me with my hand down my pants. I was only adjusting myself, but I can’t explain that without giving away my presence. There’s nothing I can do but accept the look Shelley gives me once she’s recovered from the shock.

“I have just the massage oil for you,” she calls over to Katarina, who’s lying on her front, completely naked with only a fluffy white towel covering her arse.

I swallow a groan as Shelley presses a bottle of oil into my palm and we swap places. I press a kiss to her cheek and shove her into the closet. It’s just me and Katarina now.

A small pool of massage oil warms in my palm as I stand to the side of Katarina. She’s face down on the padded massage table, head resting in the cut-out in the mattress, her long hair swept to one side and her arms resting over her head. My woman, I mouth with a stupid as fuck grin on my face.

My grin widens when I drizzle the oil along her spine and I hear a sharp intake of breath. I pour a little more oil into my palm but when I rub my hands together, my rough skin rasps. I wince. I need to take better care of my hands if I’m going to worship this goddess the way she deserves.

I’m normally calm under pressure, but there’s a tremor running down to my fingertips as I trail them over her back, smearing massage oil over her flawless skin. Katarina tenses at my touch, but she doesn’t offer complaint as I splay my hands across her shoulder blades. I’ve received plenty of massages, but giving them has been limited to certain areas of a woman’s body.

My fingers skate across her skin, my thumbs pressing along the ridges of her spine, but my eagerness to map out every inch of her body is a poor attempt at a genuine massage. I want to touch her everywhere.

Katarina’s fingers start twitching. It’s not going to take her long to figure out I’m not Shelley. I need to make my move, but my heart is in my throat. I’m as nervous as a schoolboy building up the courage for his first kiss.

“I don’t smell lavender,” Katarina says accusingly.

I sniff the air. Jasmine maybe?

“Jasmine and… patchouli?” she guesses. “And something else. Something masculine.”

Shit.

I tense, preparing to receive a kick to my balls or a punch to the throat if she turns over. When she doesn’t, there’s only one explanation. She knows it’s me. Or hopes it’s me? She’d better not be expecting someone else. I push that thought away. How could she possibly be wanting anyone else when she’s had her first taste of Killian McConkey?

Speaking of taste…

I slide my hands down her back in response, my thumbs tracing the sweet little dimples on either side of her spine before I slide the towel down. She clenches her arse cheeks and I swallow a groan as I remember what it felt like to have her inner walls squeezing my fingers. My cock wants some of the same.

Teasing her legs apart, I expose her center and lean over so she can feel the contours of my chest against her thighs. I spear my tongue into her and when she hisses, I do it again before trailing my tongue and my whole damn face along the crack of her arse to the base of her spine. My mouth and chin come away wet with her juices.

I ghost a single fingertip along her spine as I make my way back to the top of the massage table. She’s looking at the floor and must see my leather boots, but she remains relaxed.

I unbuckle my belt.

“You’ve been wet for me a while, Kitty,” I say, smirking when she doesn’t jump at the sound of my voice. “When did you work out it was me?”

“Shelley told me.”