Page 17 of Devil’s Reign

“Is it working?” I ask breathily, leaning more of my weight into him. I’m so far gone, so desperate for his touch; there’s no way he’s not at least a little affected by me too. He dips his head, dragging his nose along the side of my neck. “Vanya.”

The moment his name leaves my mouth, he goes still. Fuck. What did I⁠—

In one smooth motion, he turns me around, hands firm on my arms, and suddenly he’s looking down at me. His pupils are blown wide, his chest heaving with each breath.

He's just as affected as I am, and the knowledge surges through me like victory.

“What did you just call me?” His eyes lock onto my lips as he asks, as if he’s waiting—dying—to hear me say it again.

I’m only too willing to please. “I’m aching, Vanya. Please… Ease me,” I moan.

He groans deeply, the sound almost pained, and he lowers his head towards mine. He’s going to kiss me. My eyes flutter shut, and I tip my chin up, already anticipating the taste of him. It would feel so good. He would taste so good.

“You’re fucking wet for me, aren’t you, sladkaya moya?” he breathes against my parted lips, brushing just close enough to make it torture.

I nod eagerly, past the point of pretense. “I’ve never been this wet in my life.” The confession spills out unfiltered, and he groans again, pressing his lips to mine in a chaste kiss that’s nowhere near enough. Then he pulls away.

“No, no, no—nun te ne jiri, amuri miu.” Don’t leave, my love. The Sicilian endearment tumbles out in a rush as I chase his lips, but he’s already out of reach. When I open my eyes, he’s standing at the foot of the bed. So far away, it might as well be miles.

“Who exactly is seducing whom here, Milani?” He rolls his neck casually, adjusting the lapels of his jacket like he didn’t just have me unraveling in his arms seconds ago.

It takes a moment for my lust-fogged brain to catch up. To realize what just happened.

He turned my move around on me.

I stare at him in disbelief, my heart still thudding from the adrenaline. “You—you⁠—”

He smirks. Actually fucking smirks. “Who sent you to spy on me? And why?”

Are we back to this again? After that?

“Nobody sent me.” Frustration bleeds into my voice. Mostly sexual, if I’m being honest.

“Too bad you’re not ready to talk yet. Enjoy your meal.” He waves at the food I’ve all but forgotten about and turns to leave. I refuse to let him walk away with the last word, so I yell after him.

“My name is Melani, not Milani.”

But he just slams the door shut.

Motherfucker.

10

IVAN

I know perfectly well what her name is. I don’t need her reminder. Milani. Christ.

It just slipped out so easily; I didn’t even register it until she threw it back at me with that indignant shout. That’s the part that bothers me. How natural it felt.

Getting so caught up in my prisoner that I’m giving her affectionate nicknames tied to my mother tongue is bad enough. But calling her a diminutive of her name that includes mila—dear—when I’ve never done that with any woman I’ve fucked before? That’s worse. So much worse. And I haven’t even fucked her yet. Hell, I haven’t even kissed her properly. I need to screw my head on straight. She’s messing with it. Crawling around in places she has no business being. Making my heart do things I didn’t think the lifeless organ was capable of.

Instead of returning to my office, where Luka is undoubtedly waiting with questions I don’t want to answer, I detour to my bedroom. As soon as the door shuts behind me, I lean against it, squeezing my eyes shut as I wrap my hand around my throbbing cock in a hard, unforgiving grip. The pressure makes me swallow a frustrated groan.

I’ve never been this worked up over a woman. Not even as a randy teenager when women flocked to me without effort. If I let this continue, my little Sicilian mouse is going to spell nothing but trouble for me. I rearrange my cock in my pants and zip up, then head into the bathroom to wash my hands.

One thing is clear: I’m not finishing myself off like some horny kid. Either I come with her or I don’t come at all. This is my punishment for letting her knock me off balance.

Back in the bedroom, I reach into my pocket for my phone—and brush against something soft. I pull it out, frowning at the hair tie I slipped in there last night. Her hair tie. I cross the room towards the trash can in the corner, fully intending to throw the damn thing away and be done with it. But I can’t make myself do it. My hand closes possessively around it instead.