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My feelings for him are complex, and multifaceted. He’s a beautiful, arrogant, kind-hearted bastard. And he’s my husband. Mine.
I had him inside me, I shudder—not altogether unpleasantly—at the thought.
God, I can still feel him there between my legs, even hours later. I’m sore in a way that isn’t unpleasant.
Reaching for a second slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table, I snuggle deeper into the blanket. I caught a chill after our outdoor escapade, and I haven’t quite been able to fight it off, even with my scalding bath, and now the fireplace snuggle.
Kirill is lounging on the couch opposite me, the coffee table and pizza between us. He’s poured me a glass of red wine, and himself a tumbler of vodka. How the man drinks it the way he does, straight, is beyond me.
“How old are you?”
His eyes, already on me, darken. “Does it matter?”
“Not really, but I’m curious. I know you’re older than me. I just don’t know how much older.”
“Forty-three.”
“F—” Okay, I’d been thinking he was closer to thirty-five. Maybe thirty-six. “You’re twenty years older than me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re old enough to be my father.”
He flashes me a devilish grin. “Lucky me, I’m your husband.”
“I’m serious. Doesn’t it feel a little wrong to you?”
He smirks. It’s utterly scandalous. Entirely sinful. “Isn’t it obvious, I quite like wrong?”
My mouth drops. His lips twitch.
He’s taunting me.
I take another bite of my pizza, then, because I can’t help myself, I ask, “Do you sometimes feel like I am a child? Like I’m not on your level?”
I don’t know why, but the idea sparks fear inside my chest. I don’t want him to see me as a little girl. As a child.
I don’t know why I care.
He leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees. “Ruby, you are the oldest twenty-three-year-old I’ve ever met.”
A flush of pleasure I can’t hide tints my skin. His eyes never drift from mine as he lifts his tumbler, taking a long drink. I cringe a little at the bitter intensity of the straight vodka, shivering at another kind of intensity as his eyes roam over me.
“How do you feel?”
Gosh, I wish he wouldn’t ask that. It’s such an intimate, revealing question.
“Fine.”
“Are you sore?”
“A little,” I admit.
Rolling his lips, he gives a single nod. Then he sits back on the couch. In black sweats and a black T-shirt, his hair mussed from our earlier activities—I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to him.
Unable to keep the words under lock, I tell him, “This is my favorite, you know?”
“What?”
