this town with the scent of you on my fingers and the taste of you on my tongue. Now spread your legs.”
“W-what?”
“I won’t ask twice, Miss Romanov. Spread your legs, or I’ll spread them for you.”
Shaking, I widen my knees as far as my dress will allow, my stilettos scraping along the pristine floor. Dominic holds my eye as he sinks to one knee, lifting my leg and draping it over his shoulder. “Show me how hard an heiress comes,” he growls, “and maybe I’ll show you how hard a criminal fucks.”
That’s the last I see of him before he dips forward, and I feel his mouth against me. I want it more than I want my next breath, and at the same time I know it’s just another mind game. It’s another piece of control he’s taking.
But everything fades away the minute his tongue invades me. All semblance of reason evaporates, and all I can do is feel. My entire body bursts into flames as his mouth douses it with more and more gasoline.
“Dominic!” I scream, not giving a shit about the echo when he flattens his tongue, licking me from opening to clit then sucking hard on the bundle of nerves until I’m out of my mind, thrashing as his heavy stubble scrapes against my skin.
He doubles his efforts with voracity just as a burst of light explodes behind my eyes, and my world flips upside down. As if he can sense my impending orgasm, Dominic thrusts his fingers back inside me, pumping with the speed of a man possessed while wrapping his lips around my clit and circling his tongue like a goddamn tornado.
And just like a tornado, I’m swept away.
Leveled.
Destroyed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Cries pour out of me as I come hard, and Dominic grabs me around the waist to keep me upright. Slowly, he stands, and I slump against him as wave after wave of aftershocks ripple through me.
This man is going to be the death of me. Dominic is a manipulator used to getting what he wants. But with me, he’s force with limits. He’s control with trust. He’s coercion with consent. And God help me, I want to succumb to all of it.
After a few moments, he steadies me on my feet, and I watch both mesmerized and mortified as he wipes his glistening chin with the back of his hand and licks his lips. “Now, Miss Romanov, I believe it’s rude for the hostess to abandon her own party.” Turning, he offers his arm like we didn’t just defile a multimillion-dollar mansion. “Shall we?”
I wish I had a snappy comeback, but I don’t. I’m too exhausted, too confused, and too satisfied. So instead, I take his arm, and we make our way back toward the main ballroom.
“Take short steps, rook,” he muses as we turn the corner. Confused, I turn to find a smug smile plastered across his face. “Your panties are in my pocket.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Angel
There’s something to be said for self-reliance. Even as a teenager, wandering from shelter to shelter and street to street, I preferred being alone. With solitude came comfort and with no expectation came no disappointment.
I miss the security of isolation. When everything made sense, and I didn’t have all these conflicting emotions waging war inside my head. When every moment didn’t revolve around Dominic McCallum.
Who I haven’t seen in three days, by the way.
It’s just as well. After the party, Michaela put me on display like a show pony. Since Saturday morning, I’ve flown from LA to New York and back again, doing interviews, press junkets, daytime talk shows, late night talk shows, really late night talk shows—hell, at this point, I have no idea what I’ve said and what I haven’t. It’s all one big blur.
One thing’s for sure—America loves me. Even when a few arrogant TV hosts tried to boost ratings by stirring up the Angel Smith/Jade Saxton controversy, the public stood by me. Some going so far as to picket outside Rockefeller Plaza.
Of course, Michaela prepped me with pre-canned answers. Our story is that I saw the picture of the little girl Dominic carried around and (dramatic gasp) demanded to know why he had a picture of me.
Brilliant, right?
We thought so.
And everyone bought it. So much that nobody cared about Jade Saxton’s history with Dominic McCallum or Angel Smith’s supposedly diabolical plan to get even.
Nope. In seventy-two hours, Alexandra Romanov became a national treasure.
Sweet. Infectious. And absolutely full of shit.
Which is exactly how I feel