Maelstrom

Chapter 23: Scared Shitless

Alkaev's hands circled around to the front of my waist, and he pushed me back slightly to run them slowly up my belly, cupping my full breasts too briefly before sliding over them, fingers gliding up to my collar bone. I could feel a clenching between my legs, my breath was coming in short gasps, and I realized his breathing had quickened, too. Any faster and we would be panting.

He broke our gaze for the first time to crouch down in front of me. I choked back a moan as I felt both his hands on my right ankle, moving slowly, firmly up my leg, around my knee, past the lace top of my stockings to the soft flesh of my upper thigh. My muscles quivered and after a moment his hands left me, only to begin again on my other leg.

What was he doing? Part of me screamed. My skirt didn't even reach my knees; a visual check would confirm that I carried no weapons or listening devices or ... thank you, past Lex ... lock picks there. But still this slow, tortuous, caressing search, all the way up my leg ...

Alkaev stood, his hands still under my skirt, and reached around to run them lightly over my ass. I gasped. I was wearing a silk and lace thong, so his fingers were trailing fire across my sensitive, bare skin. My balance off, I rocked forward against him and felt his hard cock press against my lower belly. He moaned softly and ducked his head, eyes closed as though he were as overwhelmed as I was.

Then his hand slipped between my legs, pressing firmly, and I knew he could feel my arousal; I had completely soaked through my panties.

Alkaev yanked his hand away as though burned. He stalked to the desk in a couple of steps and leaned his hands against it, his back to me. I staggered, deprived of both his rock hard support and the waves of sensation buffeting my senses in one cruel move.

"I'm sorry," he choked out hoarsely. "After what happened with Morales ... a thorough search seemed ... prudent."

It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to the fact that the dead thug had snuck his gun into the office by nestling it in his genitals. I was stunned at his suspicion of me, and outraged, and confused and disappointed and incredibly, amazingly, really fucking turned on.

I clearly wasn't the only one. Alkaev still hadn't turned around, and his knuckles were white from gripping the edge of the desk. I had to leave, now; if I didn't, I would step over to him, or he would come back to me, and I did not know how far we would go.

"May I leave?" I asked. I didn't even recognize my own voice. It was so husky and, I imagined, it throbbed just like every other part of me.

Alkaev merely nodded, apparently not trusting himself to speak again. I turned and nearly tripped over the body of Morales's bodyguard. Somehow, in the past few minutes, I had completely blocked out the fact that Alkaev and I were sharing the office with a couple of fresh corpses.

I suddenly felt sick. How wrong was it to feel this aroused at what had very recently become a murder scene? What would we be doing right now – in the middle of this carnage – if he hadn't stopped? What was wrong with me?

I practically dashed for the door and turned left instead of right to plunge out the back door and into the dark alley behind the club. If Alkaev had continued playing me with those hands, how long would it have taken me to remember the bodies on the floor, or that I was a cop and he was criminal, or that he had said barely a hundred words to me in the week since I'd first laid eyes on him?

The shock of cold night air doused me with icy clarity, a balm for what was left of my senses. I gulped it in like I'd just completed the New York City Marathon. But as much as I was slowly starting to regain control of my body, my thoughts kept returning to the man I'd just run from, and the feel of his hands on my body.