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His eyes open, the black expanse of them shocking in the dim glow of a single flame. I’ve toured zoos, moved under the scrutiny of tigers, and yet I sense I’ve never been in the presence of a predator quite like my husband.
When his lips hitch in a slow, half-cocked grin, tension erupts in my belly. He lifts his arms over the back of the tub, watching me where I’ve tucked myself into the far corner, facing him. The upper ink of his tattoo comes alive on his chest in the flicker of candlelight.
His voice is smooth. “You don’t look relaxed.”
Bubbles snap, crackle, and pop as he waits for my reply. “I’m not.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Should I call for some wine?”
“We’re in a tub.”
“And?”
“And, what? You think Tatiana is going to come pour us wine while we’re naked in a tub?” I scoff. The man.
“Why wouldn’t she?”
I gape. “Because we’re naked in a tub.”
“I fail to see why that would stop her from pouring wine.”
I’m flabbergasted. It takes me a solid minute to mutter, “I don’t want wine.”
“I can think of a few other ways to relax you,” he taunts, those dark eyes never leaving my face. When I don’t reply, refusing to give him the satisfaction, he continues, “An orgasm usually does the trick.”
My face flares. I don’t want to talk about orgasms with him. I don’t want to be in this tub with him. Or here with him at all.
After a few minutes of nibbling my lip while he stares at me with those dark coffee eyes, I sigh. “Why are we doing this, Kirill? You don’t strike me as a ‘bath’ kind of man.”
“I’m not. In fact, this is my first in this tub.”
I can’t help but look at him. “Then why are we doing this now?”
He blinks a slow and leisurely blink. “I want to get to know my wife.”
“And you think a bath is the place to do that?”
He’s quiet as he watches me. “I think you run away from me every time I attempt to get close to you otherwise.”
“I sleep with you every night.” Gosh, just saying the words makes my cheeks heat.
“You don’t talk to me, though.”
I feel my brows rise. “You want conversation?”
I hate how he can surprise me like this.
“What is it you think I want as I hunt you around my house, trying to spend time with you?” When I don’t answer fast enough, he presses, “To ravage you? To throw you up against the wall and take you as a husband should take his wife?”
It’s not just my cheeks on fire now. It’s all the parts of me.
I hate how he does this to me. Affects me so physically. So intimately.
“You want conversation, then talk.”
His brows knit just slightly. He asks—or demands, “Tell me about your life before.”
I blunder. “I don’t know what to say.”
