Chapter 115

But I’m up. I’m on my feet. Stupid? Yeah. Dangerous? Probably. Naïve? Without a doubt.

I keep going anyway.

Daniil is still on the balcony, but he’s moved from the hammock to the sofa. He’s got his legs hitched up over the balcony railing and he’s looking directly up at the stars like there are things written there that only he can see. The night is clear and crisp and the sky looks diamond-encrusted.

“Wow,” I whisper. “That is something.”

He doesn’t startle like some people would. He doesn’t look at me, either, or even so much as blink. I just become aware that he’s become aware of me. Simple as that.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I explain, stepping onto the balcony.

He still says nothing. It feels like I’m walking a pirate’s plank as I glide over and sit down next to him. Farther away than I want to, but it’s as close as my courage permits. Does he know why I’m here, I wonder? Is there guilt stamped across my forehead, along with evidence of every other bad decision I’ve made in the last fifteen years?

I’m fidgeting and itchy, about ready to crawl out of my skin, when he finally breaks the silence.

“What are you doing out here, sladkaya?” he asks. His voice is soft and yet somehow deadly at the same time.

“I, um… I don’t exactly know.”

“Bullshit.” One word, succinct and whiplash-effective.

“I was kinda hoping you could explain something to me.” I breathe in and charge ahead. “Why did you stop?”

I cringe and close my eyes as soon as the words are out. They sound even lamer than I expected.

Daniil sighs and rubs his chin with those capable fingers. “You’re overthinking things.”

“I’ve been known to do that.”

“So maybe you should stop.”

“Ah, if only I could.”

He looks like he’s about to smile. I can feel my heart skip around at the mere prospect of seeing him do just that.

Jesus, I’m pathetic. And I’m terrified that he knows it.

“I thought you didn’t want to cross that line with me anymore,” he rumbles.

“I didn’t. I mean—I don’t.”

“You’re the one who kissed me,” he adds. As if I needed the reminder. “I’ll ask again: why are you here?”

“I want to finish that kiss,” I say before I can lose my nerve.

He raises his eyebrows. Then, after what feels like an interminable length of time, he offers me his hand. I slip my fingers into his. The moment I do, he pulls me onto his lap.

My robe parts at the waist, revealing that I’m naked underneath. He plays with the tie of the robe, but he doesn’t pull it apart. His fingertips graze from the sash to my bare thighs. Ten points of heat that light me up from head to toe.

“You want to finish the kiss?” he asks in that gravelly voice. “Okay then. Finish it.”

I place my hands at his shoulders and lean in hungrily. His lips are firm and cold. They push against mine, and I realize that the last time, he’d been holding back.

He’s not holding back any longer, though. There’s nothing gentle about the way his lips attack mine, parting them easily with only the slightest of nudges.

The moment our tongues lash around one another, I feel my core shiver to life. It sends an electric bolt of desire coursing through my body. I’m leaning in, grinding against him, desperate for more friction…

When he pulls away.

He’s wearing this look on his face. It’s almost predatory. Wild, but in the kind of way that makes my toes curl with anticipation.

“Wha… what’s—?”

“You wanted a kiss,” he says, his words nearly a growl. “You got it. Now, go to bed. Before you get yourself into the kind of trouble you don’t want.”

“What kind of trouble is that?” I ask, sounding much bolder than I feel.

He peels my hands from around his neck. “If we keep kissing, I won’t be able to stop. That kind of trouble.”

I swallow. Those words do things to me. I heat up, open up, melt right on his lap.

“You know,” I say through a dry throat, “if you were really the asshole you pretend to be, you wouldn’t have given me the out. You would’ve just had your way with me and called it a night.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I’d have a better explanation if you didn’t insist on doing that with your hips.”

I smirk and roll my hips against him again. “That, you mean?”

“Kinsley…”

It’s a reprimand, in theory. A red flag warning. But the sensible part of my brain shut down about five minutes ago. Scratch that—ten years ago. The animal side of my brain is in charge now, and it’s restless.

I lean in, brush my lips against his ear, and whisper, “You want me to stop? Make me.”

His eyes narrow even further. Before he can make good on his promise to send me packing, I get off his lap. I notice the disappointment in his eyes and it gives me the courage I need to go ahead with my impromptu plan.

It’s funny: I’ve never really seduced a man before, in the true sense of the word. And here I am, trying to seduce the father of my child. The man who left me in the middle of a deserted forest, after one night of amazing car sex, without so much as a see-you-later.

I pull at the sash of my robe and it comes apart immediately. I slide it off my shoulders and toss it carelessly to the floor. His eyes are alight with naked desire, snaking along my body with zealous concentration. Like missing even one freckle, one pocket of shadow, will be the death of him.

I lower myself down to my knees and run my hands along his legs. Up and down, up and down, until I see the resistance in his eyes finally sputter out.

That’s when I grab the waistband of his boxers and pull them down. His cock springs free and my mouth fills up with saliva instantly.

I wrap my right hand around the base of his cock and run my tongue along his shaft. “Fuck,” he mutters as he slips lower along the sofa, his legs parting a little wider.

I nestle into the crook of his thighs and keep exploring him with my tongue.

Tomorrow, this might feel like the mistake he seems to think it is. But tomorrows are for regret and logic and facing all the annoying little things that hold you back from doing what you really want to do.

Tonights are for doing what you want.

He lets me do what I want, to my surprise. He doesn’t direct me in any way. He doesn’t push my head down like Tom used to do or grind into my mouth in search of his own selfish relief. He just sits there, letting me taste and savor him the way I want, as if he has no preferences apart from my lips, my tongue, my own pleasure.

It just makes me more determined. More desperate to satisfy him.

Only when my eyes turn watery do I pull out, allowing myself a moment to breathe. I’m gasping in big spurts of air, and it’s cold and sharp in my lungs, but it feels good.