He made a pleased noise in his throat and pushed two fingers inside me. “And this>?” Panting, I rocked my hips against his hand, but he refused to give me any movement. “And this?” he repeated roughly. I never assumed D’yavol would be one to initiate conversation during sex. Though it wasn’t the Russian kingpin between my legs; it was the man who stole my breath and virginity—and maybe my heart. Knowing I wouldn’t get what I wanted until I answered, I nodded. “How many men have had their fingers inside you?” he growled. With a heavy sigh, I asked, “How many women have you done this to?” He didn’t like the question. Hypocrite. “We’re not talking about me.” “Why are we talking at all?” “Because this body is mine, and I need to know who’s fucked with it.” His fingers were still inside me, and it was seriously distracting. “Can we have this conversation later?” “Nyet. How many?” I groaned in frustration, then rattled off a random number. “Seventeen.” “Malen’kaya Igunishka . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Seventeen, and not one could get you off?” “How many women have you been with?” I snapped. “I’m sure I’d need to have a one-night stand every day for ten years to match your number.” He smiled. “Three thousand six hundred and fifty-two is a sum I could only aspire to meet—that is, if we’re taking leap days into account. If not, minus two, and I may have a better shot.” Did he just do the math in his head? God, that was . . . hot. “T have faith in you,” I told him. “But be careful. One of them might end up meaning something to you.” The words seared like acid on my tongue. He watched me for a second. “Ya dumayu uzhe slishkom pozdno dlya etogo.” I didn’t know what he’d said, but the significance of his voice made my throat thick. The words felt . . . oddly touching in a way, even while he was manipulating me to submit by use of sexual torture. I didn’t want to tell him about my past. I didn’t want to think about Carter and the one other man I’d let get to third base. The Moorings’ Mila