Page 40 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

"I brought you clothes."

He holds up the bag. I look at it, then at him, then at the bag again.

Turning to face him, I raise my brows in surprise. "You went shopping for me?" More than a little curious, I take a step in his direction. I no longer feel the whisper of his body heat play over my exposed skin.

Standing this close, the warmth rolling off him wraps around me and urges me to come closer.

His lips curve into a soft smile. "Yes," he simply answers and that one word pulls on the strings forming attachments to my heart where one Russian bodyguard is concerned. I file that little detail away, drag out a smile of my own and slip it on.

"Thank you." I don't move to take the bag. If I do, he could simply walk away and I don’t want to lose his warmth. "I borrowed your shirt. Hope you don't mind."

His eyes drop to the gray fabric hanging to my mid-thigh, then snap back to my face so fast I almost miss the detour. Heat flickers in his expression.

He raises a hand and moves in like he wants to move a fallen strand of hair from my face, but he stops short of touching me. He pulls back a little, but that easy grin is still in place. "I like it on you, malyshka. Keep it. I also like seeing you with nothing else on underneath."

I follow his line of sight to find my nipples have betrayed me again. Warmth hits my cheeks and I can only imagine how I look flustered, wearing nothing but his shirt to a man of his age. Like I’m horny and ready is how, pipes up a voice in my head.

I bite my lip, tempted to look away like I’ve done something wrong. But I’m not exactly shy. “Are you always so direct?”

I turn back to the garden or risk jumping my bodyguard slash wish granter in the middle of his dead garden. It’s not how I envisioned losing my virginity but it would be one helluva story to share if I ever have friends to tell.

Kneeling down, I clear off some dead leaves from the little weed. It might not be much to look at, but it’s lived despite the odds stacked against it. Which I know a little about.

The heat of his gaze tracks my moves.

"You don't have a second chair. Why is that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

I only get silence so I look over my shoulder to see him considering me with a blank expression like he doesn’t understand the question.

I point over my shoulder. "In the kitchen. At the counter. You only have one chair, one glass and one mug. I bet if I opened your drawers you would also have only one set of silverware." I pause. "One bedroom. Everything is singular down here. Why? Don’t you have company over? Other women?" That last one pains me to ask. I don’t really want to–

“No one besides you has ever been inside my home.”

His voice drops lower on the words, the accent thickening around the edges. His eyes blaze with…old pain, I realize. He’s been hurt by someone or has lost someone close. I recognize it from what I’ve witnessed in my mother.

He holds the same ghost of hurt as she does. It’s there and then gone, but I see it before he can bury it again.

I purse my lips. “Oh.”

He’s loved and lost. No man with that much sorrow in his eyes doesn’t have a dark history. My heart softens toward him, and curiosity rushes in to fill the space.

I turn fully to face him and the wall of warmth coming off the massive Russian chases away the early morning chill. I step a fraction closer and he doesn't move. “I’m sorry.” I place a hand on his chest. Both to let him know I mean my words and for any kind of comfort I can offer.

“For what, malyshka?” He places his hand over mine and we stand like that for a few heartbeats. His gaze roams over my face.

I sense we are on the cusp of heading down a dark path should I answer his question. I don’t want to ruin our time together with the darkness of our pasts so I opt for a brighter topic.

I scrunch my face. "Better question, Daddy Volkov." The sharp inhale and flash of heat across his expression is exactly what I'm after. "If you didn't sleep in the bed with me last night, where did you sleep?"

"The chair," he answers but his attention is not on the turn of conversation.

I cock a brow, pretending to be very concerned. "The reading chair. In the library. Tsk. Tsk."

A brisk wind kicks up the cliff and twirls around us, sending chills to rush over my body. It also does other things to me and the man in front of me takes notice. Big time.

He lifts a heavy shoulder and leans into me, closing the distance between us. "Da," he answers but he’s not really focused on his answer.

His eyes drift over the gray material of my borrowed shirt to play over the hard tips of my nipples. I don’t jerk away or bother to cover myself. Why? It’s not like he’s never seen a woman, or me for that matter. I’m completely naked under this thing and he hasn’t moved to hurt me once. I don’t feel I need to hide from him.