Page 70 of The Wrong Monster

But I can feel it. Oh god, I can feel it as his tongue drags a slow path up through my folds to circle my clit. Another open-mouthed kiss; a wet, sloppy sound that only makes my pussy clench, wanting more but unable to ask because I’m breathless.

Vasily’s hands finally bear down, wrapping around my hips and holding me to the bed as he starts eating me out in earnest. He moans against my core, a low hum that makes me pant. He shoulders his way beneath my legs so my ankles hook over his shoulders, brushing his perfectly ironed shirt.

I want him. I hate how much I want him.

I was just thinking about how I shouldn’t want him, and here I am ready to beg him to…

Without warning, my over-sensitive body crashes toward an orgasm. I cry out, reaching for him and unable to touch him thanks to the sheet separating us. He holds me down, grounding me, licking and lapping slowly as each crest makes my legs jerk and a shiver run up my spine.

“Fuck, Vasily.”

When it’s over, I’m breathless and disoriented. Vasily stands. I expect him to strip off his clothes, climb onto the bed, and have his way with me.

Instead, he simply adjusts his shirt and walks toward the door without looking back.

“That’s it?”

He pauses. His hand rests on the handle.

“You said last night, this is a terrible habit. We need to have some self-control.”

The words hit harder than they should. Guilt makes me draw my knees up again, because he’s not wrong, but I can see now that it’s me who keeps giving in. I’ve never wanted this more than whatever guy I’ve shared a bed with, but here I am.

Then he’s gone.

I stare at the closed door. Relief comes first; I’m relieved he didn’t ask anything of me. Relieved I don’t have to navigate whatever this is between us.

But underneath it is something far more irritating. Hurt, maybe. I toss the sheet off and stand, furious with myself.

“Asshole.”

The empty room offers no argument.

* * *

In person, Mikhail is not what I expect from his voice on the phone. He’s sitting across from me in a plain interview room, hands folded neatly on the table. Glasses. Dark brown hair receding at the temples. If I passed him in a grocery store, I wouldn’t look twice.

This is the man whose financial decisions could bring down an entire criminal organization.

I keep my expression neutral.

“Before we get into the records,” I say, “I need to hear it from you again. You want me representing you?”

“Yes.” He looks at the closed door. “And this stays between us?”

“It does.”

The new release application has been denied. The court still isn’t satisfied that the proposed safeguards answer the flight concerns. I’ve already explained the decision to him; neither of us likes it. Now I need to give him something more useful than my opinion of Beaumont’s first attempt.

“So,” I say, opening my notebook. “Let’s get on the same page. You’re the accountant.”

His eyes flash with irritation. This should be interesting.

“I suppose that’s one way to refer to me. As if I’m an inanimate object.”

“Would you prefer, alleged criminal?”

“Not particularly.”