Page 70 of Ruthless Reign

“This is a bad idea,” she whispers, even while gripping the armrests of her seat and parting her legs to give me better access to her entrance.

“Since when did I let a bad idea stop me?”

I sink two fingers inside her. Her eyes go wide and she quivers, biting her bottom lip just in time to suppress a little moan of pleasure.

“We’re … going … to be … caught,” she barely manages to choke out.

“If anyone walks in, I’ll shoot them.”

Her eyes fly open, and she looks at me. Horrified.

I give a little laugh. “My guard is waiting outside and will stop anyone from coming in. Even Anatoly.”

I hate having a guard shadow me, but since the attack on the port a few days ago, I need someone watching my back. At least until we know more because the culprits are still out there, unidentified.

With that settled, she’s moving her hips in little circles, attempting to get off on my fingers. Her pussy is so wet and needy. I let out a hiss when her inner walls clamp down on my fingers.

“Such a good girl,” I praise her.

I hook my fingers forward to rub on her G-spot, and even in the dark of the balcony, I see her eyes roll back in her head.

“Oh my God,” she mewls, disguising her pleasure with a well-timed cough. Her breaths are coming fast and hard, and she’s grinding down on my hand, chasing her release in a theater with hundreds of people.

Goddamn.

The only thing that would make this moment more perfect is if Liza was writhing on my cock, not just my fingers.

That’s in the cards sometime soon. She just doesn’t realize it yet.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

LIZA

Roman Vasiliev and his magic fingers.

My breath comes out in sharp, needy pants. I must be drunk to go along with something so risky. Even in the dark, with Roman’s guard at the door, anyone paying close attention could catch us. That realization alone should stop me, but it only intensifies the erotic charge building between my legs.

I’m way past the point of being able to stop. Not when Roman’s scent—pine and leather—surrounds me and his fingers fill me. The stretch is intense but perfect.

From a distant place, I’m aware of the music soaring to a crescendo and filling the auditorium with its powerful climax. The opera singers on stage pour their souls into the final notes, their voices intertwining in a dramatic finale.

That’s the moment his thumb coasts over my clit. With just a flick, I tip over the edge.

My orgasm hits hard and fast, the peak of my pleasure timed with the peak of the finale, and I’m too far gone to hold back. I cry out, my eyes squeezed shut, and throw my head back, clenching the armrests like I’m holding on for dear life.

Oh, fuck.

My thighs tighten around his hand, and he slows but leaves his fingers deep inside me, allowing me to ride out the final waves of pleasure on his palm. Wetness coats my thighs, and the satisfied growl that comes from Roman tells me he doesn’t mind that I’ve soaked his fingers.

When my eyes open, he’s looking right at me.

“Well done,” he rasps, removing his fingers from my core.

Even in the dim light I can see how wet and shiny they are. He pops two fingers into his mouth and, holding eye contact, makes a show out of licking them clean like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.

It’s so hot, but that doesn’t stop the horror from sinking in. Lights are flashing inside of my brain, reminding me of what a big mistake I’ve made.

Around us, the entire audience is on their feet, clapping boisterously, while Roman’s focus is entirely on me.