Everything for Us (The Bad Boys #3)(34)
Author: M. Leighton

“Fine,” he says sharply. “Marissa, call if you need anything. My secretary can get hold of me, even if I’m in court, and I can call you back.”

How very thoughtful of you, I think wryly.

“I’ll try not to bother you,” she says kindly.

“You’re never a bother,” he responds smoothly. After a few seconds of undressing her with his eyes, Pompous Ass looks back to me. There’s a challenge in his expression that sets my teeth on edge. “Ready whenever you are.” I’m not sure if he means it like I take it, but it sure as hell sounds like he does, like he’s ready to throw down over Marissa. Not that it matters. He’ll lose. I play to win. Always.

“After you,” I say, nodding toward the door.

Jensen opens it and walks through. I give him a good lead and turn to look at Marissa. She says nothing, and neither do I. Her eyes aren’t flashing in anger, but there’s something in them. I just don’t know what it is.

Without a word, I walk out the door and close it behind me. I wait until Pompous Ass is in his car and heading down the street before I slide behind the wheel of the BMW and start the engine.

I pause only long enough to hit the redial button before I slam the car into gear and speed off down the road, away from Marissa’s. Dmitry doesn’t answer; I get only an automated voice mail greeting. I dial again. Same thing. I stop at the stop sign and check my phone. Sure enough, he left me a message.

“Nikolai,” he says in his gruff, strongly accented voice. “You will not be able to contact me at this number. It’s no longer safe. I’ll be in touch with you soon. Expect my call.”

A loud click signals the end of the message. I hit replay and listen again. It’s no longer safe. Something has happened, but what? And why? Why now? Does it have anything to do with his association with me? Could they have found out that he harbored me, the other son of a traitor?

A surge of fury rises up inside me. Impotent rage. I want blood. Their blood. On my hands, quenching my thirst for revenge. But it seems every step of forward progress I make, they’re there, countering it. Tying my hands.

My frustration is at peak level and I need to vent, to release some angst. One face comes to mind. I’m too angry to think of why it does or the wisdom of going to her. I simply act.

I yank the steering wheel, whipping the car around. With a squeal of the tires, I race back down the street. Back to the condo. Back to her.

The brakes scream as I screech to a stop along the curb. I climb out of the car, slamming the door behind me. When I reach her door, again I don’t bother to knock. I twist the knob and walk right in, thankful it’s still unbolted. The fact that it was, which is incredibly stupid on her part, only adds fuel to the fire of my anger.

I stomp down the hall toward Marissa’s bedroom. Her bathroom door is partially open and I can see her reflection in the mirror. She’s standing in front of the sink with a tube of toothpaste in one hand and her toothbrush in the other.

She has already changed clothes. She’s wearing a tiny little nightie thing. It’s not trashy or blatantly seductive, but it’s sexy as hell nonetheless.

It looks more like something a girl might dress her baby doll in. It’s girly and pink and hangs in a straight line to the tops of her thighs. Thin satin straps hold it in place over her shoulders, like a sundress. Where it departs from anything a child or baby doll might wear is in the material. It’s nearly transparent. I can see the shadow of her ni**les through it, as well as her navel and the outline of her panties. It’s both innocent and provocative, and I want to rip it off her.

I push the door open and it bangs against the stopper on the wall behind it. Her hands pause in midair. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. They’re wide as she watches me. She says nothing.

I walk over to stand behind her. With my eyes on hers, I reach around her and grab her breast. I squeeze it, maybe a little more firmly than I intended, and she flinches. But I don’t care. Right now I need to be rough. And right now I need her to take it.

As if in answer to me, I feel her nipple tighten beneath my palm. Maybe I wasn’t too rough. Or maybe she likes it rough.

I feel myself straining against my jeans. With my free hand, I reach for her toothbrush and toothpaste, jerking them from her fingers and flinging them into the sink.

I lower my hands to her hips and curl my fingers in the material of her nightie. I raise it. When she doesn’t resist, I pull it over her head and toss it onto the floor behind me.

Her ni**les are puckered and ready for my touch. Her chest rises and falls with her accelerated breathing. Her bottom lip trembles in anticipation. Yes, she likes it like this, whether she’d ever admit to it or not.

I palm both br**sts and pull her back against me, flush against my chest. She lets her head fall back, but she watches me from beneath her lashes. “You’re so fu—damn sexy,” I groan, catching myself.

I roll the tight ni**les between my fingertips, lightly pinching them. Her lips part and I hear a tiny gasp escape them. I press my lower body toward her, grinding my hard-on against her. She arches her back and pushes that firm, round ass out, rubbing it back and forth over me. I grit my teeth so hard I could bite nails.

I move my hands down to her hips, holding them still while I move against her. I bend my head to her neck and gently sink my teeth into her scented skin. Her eyelids flutter shut.

Sliding one hand around to her stomach, I push my fingers under the edge of her panties, then down to cup her warm flesh.

Her lips part further and she widens her stance. Just a little, just enough that I have better access.

Yeah, she likes this. She wants it. But I want to see the desperation in her eyes.

She moves against my hand. I know what she needs, where she wants me to put my fingers. But I want her to wait a little longer for it.

Without parting her folds, I move my hand over her, teasing her. I can feel the moisture against my palm. It makes me throb with the need to be inside her.

But at the moment, I want to look in her eyes more than anything. I move my free hand to her hip. With one quick jerk, I tear her panties. The thin band breaks easily under the force. She gasps in surprise, but she doesn’t open her eyes. They’re still closed. But I don’t want them to be. I want them open. I want to see her reaction. I want her to know that I’m angry and that I’m taking what I want, not asking for it. And that she’s giving it to me.

I want to see that she accepts me this way.

I slap her on the ass and growl, “Watch.” Her eyes pop open and focus on mine. They’re dark with passion. And acceptance. And excitement. “Good girl,” I say, rewarding her by sliding one finger of my other hand between her swollen lips. She’s slick with desire. I rub my fingertip over the firm nub at the top of her lips and her eyelids drift shut again. I give it a little pinch and she moans. “Watch,” I demand again.