Chapter 21 Istraddle Sergei, planting my knees in the leather seat on either side of his hips, not caring how cramped the space is. The jaws of life wouldn't be able to pry me away from him right now. Our need for each other always simmers just beneath the surface, and tonight I don't have the energy to fight it. His hands slide down my sides with a slow and possessive feel. When he finally locks his grip on my ass and grinds my body against his hard length, I moan into his mouth and roll my hips over his, electricity pulsing through every nerve. And it's still not enough. "You're torturing me," he growls, his lips dragging down my neck. "You can't imagine how much I want you." "I think I have a pretty good idea," I manage, breathless. He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and wild, and reaches for the hem of my dress. "Have you ever fucked in a car before?" he asks, a wicked edge in his tone. My body tightens at his words, heat surging low in my belly. I bite my lip and shake my head slowly. "This would be my first time," I admit, more aroused than embarrassed. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. "Fuck, that turns me on," he growls. He kisses me again, and this time it's feral, just teeth, tongue, and unimaginable heat. I can't think about anything but the way he feels against me, how much I want him to fuck me senseless right now. His hands slide under the fabric of my dress, dragging it up until it pools around my hips. I tug at his shirt, desperate to touch skin, and when he helps me yank it off, I run my hands down his chest, feeling every solid line, every muscle. His body is perfect with those strong, taut muscles that are mine to explore and squeeze. He pushes my panties aside with one hand, and his fingers slide between my folds. "Fuck," he mutters. "You're soaked." "You always make me like this," I whisper into his ear, nibbling his earlobe. When I pull away, his mouth crashes against mine as two fingers sink inside me, slow and deep. I gasp against his lips, arching into his touch. He swallows the sound, but I'd bet people a county away can hear me. I grind against his palm, greedy for more, and he groans low in his throat. "Look at you," he says, pulling back to watch my face. "So desperate for me. You're so fucking perfect." My whole body is shaking. I cling to his shoulders as he thrusts his fingers in and out, curling just right, and I can feel myself hurtling toward release. He knows it too. I can tell by his satisfied smirk. He's very pleased with himself. "Come for me, Nicole," he commands. "Right here on my fingers." His voice alone nearly sends me over the edge. A few more strokes, and I'm falling, head back, body trembling, a cry ripping from my throat that I don't even try to muffle. My orgasm crashes through me like a wave, leaving me wrecked and panting. I accidentally lean back on the horn, blaring it for a long moment, and I don't even care. He carefully pulls me against him as I continue to come down, and we both burst out laughing. But the brief distraction isn't enough to make us stop. We pause only long enough to be sure no one comes to investigate the noise. When we're both satisfied that we're still alone, he lifts me slightly, undoing his pants with one hand. My legs are still shaking, but I help him, pushing the fabric down just enough to free him. His cock is thick and hard and perfect, already glistening with his desire. He groans, grabs my hips, and lowers me onto him. My slick pussy clenches around him instinctively, and we moan together. "Jesus Christ," he mutters. "You feel like heaven." I can't speak, so I just groan in response. I start to move, rocking my hips slowly, and his head drops back against the seat. It's awkward and messy at first. My knees keep slipping on the leather, and the steering wheel digs into my back, but I've never felt anything so good. Every time I roll my hips, he thrusts up to meet me, and the angle is perfect, hitting me right where I need it. I brace my hands on his shoulders and ride him harder, faster, chasing another release. "Fuck," he grits out. "Just like that. Don't stop." I don't. I can't. We're a tangle of limbs and breath and skin. His hands move up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples through the fabric of my dress, and I cry out again. His mouth finds mine, and he kisses me through it, desperate and filthy and sweet all at once. "I've never felt like this," I start to say, but the words dissolve into a moan. My orgasm builds again, sharper this time. "You're mine," he whispers, lips at my ear. "Say it." "I'm yours," I gasp. He thrusts up hard once, burying himself to my hilt, groaning loudly. He pulls out slowly and then shoves himself inside even deeper, causing myself to shatter. The second I fall apart, he follows, growling something low in Russian that I don't understand but feel all the same, as surely as I feel him filling me. For a long time, neither of us moves. I collapse against him, our bodies still tangled, our skin damp with sweat. His heart hammers against mine, and I realize I've never felt so close to anyone in my life. Eventually, I shift, and he hisses softly as I ease off him. "Sorry," I murmur. "Don't be," he says, brushing a hand through my hair. "That was perfect." "Are you okay?" he asks, eyes searching mine for any sign of regret. I nod, stroking his face. "I've never been better," I whisper in the small space between us. A smile tugs at his lips. He leans forward, presses a soft kiss to my forehead, and then rests his hand on my thigh. "Come inside with me," he says. "Sleep in my room tonight. Stay with me." Butterflies erupt in my chest. "I'd like that," I admit, though I'm not sure what to make of it. Every time we've been together, he's left not long after. Does this mean he wants more? Am I ready to give him more? I shove the questions aside as he kisses me again slow and sweet, then opens his door. I follow him into the house, still a little shaky and breathless, as well as stunned by the incredible experience we just shared. More than anything, he's made me feel wanted and cherished tonight. It's turned our whole dynamic on its head, but I'm absolutely okay with that. When we get to his room, I realize I've never been inside. The bed is dressed in dark linens, and the décor is distinctly masculine yet impersonal. It would fit perfectly in a hotel room. There's nothing in here that speaks to his character. Even in his private space, it's like there are walls up to shield who he really is. The sheets are soft, at least. Impersonal, maybe, but very cozy. I sink into them gratefully, my body exhausted from our earlier escapades. Sergei's heavy arm wraps around my waist, anchoring me as if he's afraid I'll float away. I close my eyes, breathing in his scent, letting it drag me toward sleep. But just as I'm about to drop off, my hand slides to my stomach, and I jolt awake. Tomorrow morning, like every morning, I'll probably wake up puking. The closer we get, the more he'll start to notice the changes in me. I'll have to come clean that I'm pregnant with his baby and I've known since before his mom's stroke. It was easier to justify keeping the secret when he was just my boss. Now it feels much more complicated. He shifts beside me, nuzzling closer, and I hold my breath as his lips brush the top of my shoulder. "You still awake?" he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and thick with sleep. "Yeah," I whisper. "Just thinking." He lifts his head, eyes glinting in the low light of the room, and for a moment, it's like he's searching my soul for an answer I'm not ready to give him. Then he leans in and kisses my temple before settling back against the pillow, his arm tightening around me. I feel safe and warm, possibly even loved. It certainly feels like love, even though I know that can't be right. Not yet, at least. But it's enough to make the guilt twist inside me like a knife. He has no idea what I'm keeping from him. I'm scared. Not of Sergei, of course, though he's definitely got his own secrets. Seeing Sasha beaten within an inch of his life was proof enough of that. He's trying to keep a huge part of himself hidden from me. How do we recover from that? Is it a lack of trust in me, or is his lifestyle really so terrible that he doesn't want to show it to me? Not knowing has to be so much worse than the truth. My mind has been running wild the last few days trying to imagine what could possibly have led to Sasha getting so messed up. None of the options have been particularly comforting, but at least they would provide some clarity. But then I think about this baby. It took me a while to even get used to the idea of being a mom. And now that I have, it's hard to imagine letting anyone else into our little circle. Even Sergei. Because his secret could affect our child and I only want the best for this little life inside me. He deserves to know, and I'm painfully aware of it. But we have a serious trust issue. The thing is, I trust him with my body. I even trust him with my heart, even if I haven't admitted that out loud. But do I trust him with my life? With my child's life? Those are much heavier questions. He stirs again beside me, and I freeze, thinking maybe I've woken him. But he only sighs, murmuring something in Russian as he buries his face in my hair. I don't know what he said, but even hearing his voice causes something in me to relax. I'm falling for him, starting to feel more at home with him. If I'm not careful, I'm going to lose myself entirely to this. I'll let my guard down only to possibly be shattered. I slide gently out from beneath his arm and sit on the edge of the bed, the silk sheet pooling around my hips. The floor is cool under my feet, a sharp contrast to the heat still lingering between my thighs. I rest my elbows on my knees and cradle my face in my hands. My heartbeat echoes in my ears like a clock counting down. I'm terrified of what happens when it gets to zero. Behind me, I hear the soft rustle of sheets. "Nicole?" Sergei calls quietly. I turn, and he's propped up on one elbow, looking at me through heavy-lidded eyes. His hair is tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He's heartbreakingly gorgeous. "Is everything okay?" he asks, concern tightening his features. I force a small smile and reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. "I'm just having trouble falling asleep," I admit. He tugs me back into bed. "Then come back here," he says with a smile, pulling me against his chest. And, despite everything, I stay. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...