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Her mouth drops. Shock widens her eyes as she sucks in a sharp breath.
I groan. She lets her eyes flutter closed, whispering, “Please, God.”
Praying. She’s praying. I can’t help the smirk that forms around my finger. She tastes like heaven.
I want more.
Soon.
“It’s Kirill, wife. Or husband.”
Her eyes snap open and she glares hard at me. She looks less fragile when she glares.
Slowly, I release her bound hands. Her chest heaves with every harsh breath she breathes as she waits for me to slide off her body, and then she turns onto her side, giving me her back. She’s shunning me, I realize with another grin, as yet another rise of challenge rears inside me.
“Now, that just won’t do,” I say darkly, as I scoot closer to her on the bed.
Her body tenses as I curve my own around hers, hooking my leg through hers, my arm around her belly to plaster her tight against my front. She heaves a sigh, but speaks no words of protest. And it’s like that, feeling entirely content for the first time since I was a boy, that I fall into a peaceful, dreamless, rose-scented sleep.
Twelve
Ruby
I woke in the night with his body pressed to the back of mine, his arousal hard as granite where it rested dangerously against the crease of my butt. I had hardly breathed, staying stone still as I lay beneath him.
Throughout the night, he’d pushed into me until I was nearly on my belly, my knee hooked up with his notched into the back of it. Clearly, the man was a stomach sleeper, and a cuddler—and he was projecting his sleep practices on me.
It had taken me an age to first fall asleep in his arms. My body felt wound up tight and curiously agitated from his kiss and touch. My panties had been humiliatingly wet.
It had taken me just as long to fall back into sleep, but when I did, I slept heavy. He’d been gone when I finally woke. And I’d been surprised to find that he’d left the door open for me, something I discovered after I’d dressed in a pair of lose-around-the-leg jeans and a blousy top.
I’d taken the stairs to the main level, finding another bear of a man sitting, ankle hooked up over his meaty thigh, scrolling on his phone. I stood there, quietly assessing him, and whether I was supposed to be roaming as I was, or if my new husband had forgotten to lock me in the room. I held my breath.
The man, seeming to sense me, blinked up from his screen.
Goodness, his eyes are blue.
“H—hi,” I rush. “The door was unlocked.”
He flashes me a smile. It’s warm and feels—well, good. Comfortable. Maybe even safe, which is crazy considering where I am.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” He tucks his phone into his pocket as he stands, towering over me as all the men in Kirill’s employ seem to tower over me. It’s not a hard feat, at five-foot-two, most everyone towers over me. He glances at his watch. “Almost eleven. You must be hungry.”
I tip my head, because he has an accent, no doubt. But his English is stellar. He must have been here in America for a long time. Possibly even raised here, by Russian parents.
I ask, “How long have you been here?”
He raises a brow. “Here?”
“In America?” I ask pleasantly.
His other brow joins the first, so both are high on his forehead. He looks uncomfortable for a moment, before he clears his throat. His discomfort turns almost bashful as he clasps a hand over the back of his neck. “I think Tatiana’s got a plate of breakfast for you. Eggs, ham, potatoes.” His laugh is curiously nervous. “The whole works.”
I frown as I study him. He shifts under my scrutiny. He’s younger than Kirill—by at least ten years—and not quite as sure of himself or his words. As young as I am, Mama always said I have an old, quietly assessing soul.
I think she may have been right.
Instead of pressing him, I clasp my hands in front of me. “I am very hungry.”
