Kholodov's Last Mistress (8 page)

U
PSTAIRS
.

Hannah stared at Sergei’s outstretched hand, knew if she took it she would be saying yes. Yes to a single night. Yes to a meaningless, no-strings affair. At the thought something in her withered, shrivelled. Perhaps it was hope.

Yet wasn’t this just what she wanted? She didn’t believe in love any more; she wasn’t holding out for a happy ending. Certainly not with Sergei. And still this attraction pulsed between them, a tidal wave of longing that threatened to pull her under. Why not let herself go? Just for a night? No emotional strings, no messy attachments. Just sex.

Sergei’s eyes glittered. ‘Scared?’

Did he think she was bluffing?
Was
she? Hannah stared right back and with her heart still thumping hard she took his hand. It was warm, dry, strong, and his fingers folded over hers as he tugged her up from her chair.
Upstairs.

What was she doing?

Silently they walked from the restaurant. Hannah had no idea what would happen with the bill, but it hardly mattered. Her heart was thumping so hard it hurt. She could barely believe that she’d taken his hand, that she was letting him lead her past the reception desk, through the warm and welcoming lobby, up the open staircase, down a plushly carpeted
hallway. She jerked to a stop in front of the last door, a brass plaque indicated this was the Adirondack Suite.

‘Wait … you booked a room already? You thought …’

He turned around to face her, his hand still holding hers, his eyes glinting in the dim light, although with amusement or desire Hannah couldn’t say. ‘I booked myself a room. I needed somewhere to sleep tonight.’

Hannah swallowed. Didn’t speak. Sergei took an old-fashioned brass key from his pocket. ‘Having second thoughts?’

‘No,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I just didn’t like you thinking I was a sure thing.’

Sergei stared at her for a moment, the key resting in his palm. ‘You’ve become rather cynical, haven’t you?’ he said finally, and he almost sounded sad.

‘Realistic,’ Hannah corrected, and he unlocked the door and ushered her in.

The suite was a retreat of understated elegance and luxury, from the fireplace already laid with logs to the huge four-poster piled high with pillows and a silk duvet. Sergei went to the fireplace, kneeling before it, and Hannah moved into the room. She dropped her coat on a chair and shed her heels, which had sunk so far into the deep carpet that it was hard to walk.

She stood by the window, gazing out at the darkened landscape, rolling fields that led to deep forest, all now cloaked with night. It was very quiet. So quiet she could hear the hard thud of her heart, and wondered if Sergei could hear it too, even from across the room.

‘There.’ He stood, and Hannah saw a fire already crackling to life in the hearth.

‘That was quick,’ she said, trying to smile. For some reason her lips weren’t working and it felt like a grimace instead. Sergei noticed, his eyes narrowing.

‘You
are
having second thoughts.’

‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘But this is all a little … strange. I mean I don’t …

I haven’t …’ She stopped, shrugging. It was occurring to her that no matter what she had said or implied earlier, Sergei was going to realise—quite quickly—that she still had very little experience when it came to the bedroom. A few furtive encounters comprised a sad history indeed.

‘I know,’ he said, and she stared at him.

‘What do you know?’

Now he was the one to shrug. ‘That this isn’t usual for you.’

She didn’t know whether to be offended or gratified. ‘Maybe I do this sort of thing all the time,’ she said, and Sergei stepped closer to her.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t.’

He took another step closer and she breathed in that tangy scent of his aftershave that she still remembered from so long ago. He reached up and tucked a tendril of hair behind one ear, the touch of his fingers to her skin electric, causing her to shiver as if he’d actually shocked her. Sergei smiled and Hannah knew there was nothing she could do to keep him from knowing how much he affected her. How much she wanted him.

She finally spoke, trying to keep her tone light. Keep this whole thing light. ‘What, do you think you’re special or something?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘but you are.’

She hadn’t expected that. Suddenly she felt the sting of tears behind her lids. Her emotions were see-sawing crazily, going from anger to sadness to something deeper than either, and over all of it this consuming need. ‘Sergei—’

‘Shh.’ His hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs smoothing the line of her jawbone, his gaze steady and intent. It felt as if he were staring right into her soul. ‘I never
stopped,’ he said softly, and then he bent his head and kissed her.

She’d expected something passionate, hard and demanding, purely physical. She’d convinced herself that that was all there was between them, all there ever could be. Yet Sergei’s kiss was so very soft, his lips as gentle as a butterfly’s brush against her mouth, and as sweet as nectar. How could such a cold, hard man be so achingly gentle?

She stilled under that kiss, let his lips move softly over hers, nudging her own apart.
I never stopped.
Was he telling her the truth, that he’d never stopped desiring her? This kiss felt as if he was. It was so amazingly tender, so heart-wrenchingly wonderful, so
surprising.
Her mouth opened under his and his tongue slipped inside, touching the tip of hers gently, a question.

A question she could only answer with a most resounding
yes.

Her arms came up around him, revelling in the feel of his hard strength pressed against her. He deepened the kiss, his mouth taking such sure and yet tender possession of hers. His other hand curved around her hip and pulled her closer, moulding her body intimately to his. His mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, the tender curve of her shoulder, his tongue flicking along her skin, teasing and tempting. She gasped aloud as the sensations raced along her nerve endings, pooled inside her.

His mouth left her skin only for him to say one word. ‘Please.’

Her mind spinning, her body on sensory overload, Hannah didn’t realise what he was asking until he tugged her hand and led her to the bed. His eyes blazed into hers as he stood in front of her, the only sound the crackling of the flames.

With one sinuous tug he pulled the zip down the back of her dress and, already rather loose, it slithered off her shoulders
and pooled at her feet. She stood there in only her bra and panties, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the fire, the heat of Sergei’s gaze. She had an okay figure, but she knew it was nothing special. No huge boobs or tiny waist. And Sergei had probably been with supermodels …

Hannah swallowed. And shivered some more.

He touched her shoulder, his hand warm as it slid over her skin. ‘Don’t. Don’t be ashamed. Or afraid.’

‘I know I’m not like—’

‘No,’ he told her. ‘You’re better.’

She swallowed again. Nodded, because she believed him. Matthew had never told her she was beautiful. He’d never said much at all, because their meetings—Hannah couldn’t even call them dates—had been so rushed, even furtive. And it was only later—too late—that she discovered why. To her own lasting shame and pain.

She pushed the thoughts away, not wanting to allow them to dim the perfection of what shimmered and pulsed between her and Sergei now. For this moment felt perfect … even if that was all it was or ever could be. A moment. A night.

Her hands trembled just a little bit as she lifted them to Sergei’s shirt. She didn’t think they were steady enough to undo his buttons. Sergei shrugged out of his blazer, tossed it to a chair. The movement was sinuously graceful, unbearably elegant. Hannah let her hands smooth the silk of his shirt over his shoulders. He had amazing shoulders, bunched with muscle, unbelievably wide. She could feel the heat of his skin through the silk.

Sergei reached behind her and pulled down the duvet. Then in one fluid movement he scooped Hannah up and laid her down gently on the bed. She lay there, watching him. His eyes had gone dark, almost navy as he gazed at her and unbuttoned his shirt so she could see—actually see—the hard
beat of his heart, the desperate intake of breath. He was as physically affected as she was.

Sergei shrugged out of his shirt, and then his trousers and boxers quickly followed. Hannah stared at him, the sheer masculine power and beauty of his hard, honed body, his skin glowing in the firelight, and then she gasped in surprise for even in the flickering firelight she could see scars. Too many scars.

His body was a map of sorrows.

Sergei stilled, averting his face from her, his body tensing. ‘You’re shocked,’ he said quietly. Flatly. As if he’d encountered such shock and perhaps even revulsion before.

Hannah shook her head. She
was
shocked, but more than that. ‘Sad,’ she whispered. ‘For you.’ She did not ask what had happened, or how Sergei had received so many different scars on his body. The small round red marks that dotted one forearm looked, she feared, like cigarette burns. There had to be at least twenty of them. A long, livid line ran from his right shoulder to his hip, ragged and red. And there were other scars, of different lengths and depths, all of them livid reminders that this man had so many secrets, had seen too much pain. No wonder he was so cynical.

Hannah opened her arms.

Sergei’s face contorted, and Hannah couldn’t tell what emotion held him in its painful thrall. Anger, sadness, regret? Perhaps just acceptance. He slid into bed next to her and pulled her into his arms, burying his head in her shoulder.

And Hannah knew this wasn’t going to be what she’d thought. It wasn’t going to be a night of passion, a simple satiation of the physical craving they’d both been feeling. At least, it wasn’t going to be that for her.

Already it was more. Already it was incredibly intense, intimate, and scary in a whole new way.

She let her hands drift down Sergei’s back, stroking his
skin, drawing him closer. He pulled away from her to look at her, his expression both fierce and gentle. A man of contradictions, of secrets, of sorrows. Hannah touched his cheek, and Sergei kissed her, deeply this time, obliterating thought, doubt, fear.

She kissed him back, surrendering to the feel of his mouth and hands, to the pleasure and pressure building inside her. Closed her eyes as he bent his head to her body, making her feel more treasured than ever. Her hands fisted in her hair and she twisted on the sheets, longing for more, for the release and satisfaction she knew they were both craving.

He kissed her everywhere, lips lingering, savouring as he moved his mouth over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She felt as if he was learning her body, memorising it and revering it at the same time. And when she could take no more she pushed him onto his back and started to learn his, letting her hands drift over the sleek skin, hard muscle. Even with the scars, he was a beautiful man, his body honed to perfection.

She saw besides the scars he also had two tattoos: a small, ornate crucifix on his chest, three little spires like those of St Basil’s on the back of his shoulder. They intrigued her, made her realise how little she knew him. How much she wanted to. She laid her lips to his body, learning him the only way she could.

Sergei resisted her touch, pushing her hand away when her fingertips brushed his scar. Hannah wouldn’t let him. Some deep, instinctive need made her want to touch him, not just a lover’s caress, but a healing balm. Gently she ran her fingertip along the ridge of the scar on his torso. He shuddered.

‘Don’t—’

‘Does it hurt?’

He stared at her, his expression open, more open than she’d ever seen it. He looked at her with both hunger and hope. ‘No.’

She laid her lips to his scar, kissed her way across his body, gently, reverently, as if her touch could heal him. Was that what she wanted? To heal this dark, wounded man?

For this whole encounter had become so much more than she’d ever intended or even wanted it to be. She’d come upstairs with Sergei to satisfy a physical need, and prove to herself that that was all it was. And in doing so she was afraid she might have discovered the opposite.

She stilled for a moment, her lips hovering over him, the unwelcome realisation slamming into her. She didn’t
want
this to be more than just a night. More than just physical. Not with a man like Sergei, a man who was hardened, cynical, secretive …

A man who had just kissed her almost—almost as if he loved her.

Impossible.
It seemed she still was a little more naive than she’d thought.

Sergei must have noticed her hesitation, sensed something of the conflict in her, or perhaps he felt it himself. Suddenly he rolled over, flipping her onto her back, and after quickly protecting himself—and her—he drove into her in a single smooth stroke. Hannah gasped aloud at the exquisite, intense pleasure that rippled through her as her body accepted and enfolded his. All thoughts and fears were obliterated by sensation as he moved inside her, and what had felt like lovemaking became sex: simple, basic and elemental, both of them responding to the pleasure that built with each stroke until finally Hannah cried out, clutching him as she felt herself come apart and then together again in his arms.

Lying there, their bodies joined, their limbs entangled, their hearts beating against one another, Hannah felt a frightening sense of completion, of wholeness and happiness that she knew she couldn’t afford to feel. It wasn’t
real.
This was
just sex. Simple sex, a basic bodily function. Hadn’t Sergei made that clear?

You want me. I want you. Simple.

Except in that moment it didn’t feel simple, not for her. Hannah drew in a shuddering breath, willed the emotions rocketing through her to recede. It would be simple. She would make sure of it, because Sergei wanted simple … and so did she.

Sergei rolled onto his back, his heart pounding and his eyes stinging in the aftermath of what had just happened between them. The memories of Hannah’s lips on his scars made his insides clench and burn; it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. He’d had plenty of reactions to the ravages his body had endured, from the cigarette burns his grandmother inflicted when he’d annoyed her to the knife wound that had been a warning from another gang on the street. Some women had been shocked, some repulsed, some secretly enthralled, thinking they were bedding a bad boy.