Page 54 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

Both of his brows rise. The smirk breaks into a real grin and it is devastating to all the heartstrings I’ve formed for this man. The smile crinkles the corners of his eyes and softens every hard angle of his face, making me curious about forever with him.

"You are something else, malyshka."

Horny is what I am. How he’s ignoring the fact his beautiful cock is hard and ready is beyond me.

My pulse races at what I’m about to say, but I don’t let that stop me. The words sizzle through me like wildfire and I deliver them with all the heat running through my veins. "I know. Now go make my coffee, Daddy Volkov."

The grin vanishes into a look so heated the temperature of the room spikes. My core tightens. And I can’t keep from pressing my thighs together.

He palms his shaft and strokes the full length once, pre-cum spilling from the tip to wet his fingers.

“You’re dangerously close to not getting any coffee, moye solnyshko." His words are more of a growl than anything else.

“Don’t tease me, Russian.”

The spark inside me is about to make my body spontaneously combust just from watching.

This is wrong—according to him.

This is insane—according to me.

But God help both of us, I can’t stop the feelings.

…And I don’t want to.

His jaw flexes once and tightens his fingers from his other hand around the doorframe. For several seconds I watch him wrestle down whatever just detonated behind those ice-blue eyes.

Having won or lost the silent argument with himself, Rowan pushes off the frame and disappears down the hall. Still naked. Only his cock looks ready to drive into me without control.

“If only…” So close, yet so far.

I fall back against the pillow, press both hands over my face, and grin so hard my cheeks ache.

I pad to the closet, still naked, still warm from his side of the bed, and stop in the doorway.

My clothes are hung up. The jeans, the sweaters from the bag, all of it arranged on hangers next to his wall of dark suits. My few pieces of borrowed clothing lined up beside forty-seven variations of the same black outfit, organized with the same military precision he gives everything. He did this while I was sleeping. Hung my clothes next to his like I belong here.

My throat tightens. I run my fingers along the sleeve of my sweater where it hangs beside his jacket. The fabrics don't match. Nothing about us matches. And yet here they are, side by side.

On the shelf below, tucked beneath a folded sweater I missed yesterday, a small bundle of fabric catches my eye. I pull it free and my breath catches.

Black lace. Black silk. Delicate, expensive, and absolutely not what a man buys for a woman he's just trying to keep alive.

"Did you seriously buy me lingerie?" I ask the empty closet. "Who does that? Who walks into a store and picks out black lace panties for a woman he barely knows?" I glance toward the hallway where my naked Bratva man is making coffee. "The same man who teases me mercilessly and then walks away like he’s not methodically ruining me for every other male on the planet, apparently."

The lace dangles from my fingers, soft and impossibly pretty.

“You and I are going to make that Russian’s control break.”

I slide the panties up my legs. They fit perfectly, which means he has a better eye for sizing than he let on with the too-big sweater. The lace hugs my hips and the silk slides between my thighs, pressing against skin still swollen with desire for a very stubborn man.

I grab another sweater the color of pumpkin spice from the hanger and pull the overly soft material on. Oh my God, it’s like a hug. It falls past my hips, just below the curve of my ass. If I don't move too fast or bend too far, it covers everything that needs covering.

I smile. This should do perfectly.

I look at the jeans on their hanger. I look at the sweater in the mirror. The fabric hangs off one shoulder, exposing the line of my collarbone and the strap of nothing because I'm not wearing a bra. The man in the kitchen is naked. Why should I overdress?

I leave the jeans where he hung them.