Page 72 of The Beast of Moscow

Vera’s soft smile faded a bit, right along with the twinkle of happiness that had been in her eyes. Her tongue peeked out to wet her parting lips, like she was considering saying something, but he didn’t give her the chance.

Turning on his heel with a wave, he said back to her, “Tomorrow—ten for the driver.”

“Right, but Vas—”

He hadn’t seen the woman walking sideways with her phone in her hand and her focus on the screen instead of her direction until she slammed into the side of him, and he had to catch her fall. His Russian curse fell on deaf ears, because the woman apologized in clear English, as he helped her to her feet. Except he was just as much at fault because he was distracted with getting away from a conversation that had his stomach in knots with anxiety.

What was he doing?

“Apologies,” he said as the stranger turned to face him.

She had been laughing it off, about to say something else to him when her eyes finally found his face when she was righted and okay. The moment she saw his scar, she was quick to glance away with a muttered, “Sorry, again, thanks for helping me, sir.”

The woman scurried back to her female friend that she’d been trying to capture a picture of at an odd angle, apparently. Letting out an annoyed sigh, he turned to Vera with a rueful smirk and opened his arms wide, saying, “See, I really shouldn’t even be outside.”

Vera’s brow pinched when she said fast, “Don’t do that—or say it like that.”

Her indignation at his desire to joke about his sometimes-frightening appearance was endearing and disgusting at the same time.

“Just because it isn’t funny doesn’t make it untrue.”

Vera tipped her chin up a bit. “It’s not a joke when it’s at the expense of yourself; not when it hurts you. How’s that funny?”

“Who said I was hurt, Vera?”

His flat delivery of the question would have been enough for someone else to toe the line, but Vera didn’t back down. In fact, she had the nerve to cock an eyebrow when she said, “I didn’t take you to have a complex, Vas.”

At that, he barked a laugh.

“Or maybe I have one too many,” he returned.

“No one wants to be seen as a monster.”

As he turned to leave, determined to leave his ego intact, she called his name one more time. There was a damn good chance Vera only did that because she knew it would get a reaction from him. Nobody else would dare to do it so blatantly; he’d had the lesson beaten into much bigger men than her before.

Vera didn’t know any better. “I bet you did want to find me tonight; that you asked me to Paris for a reason. I didn’t take you for a coward, Vas—or at least, I didn’t think you were the type of man to be afraid of telling a woman he wanted her.”

Pride was a suka—a complete bitch on her best days. Today was one of the worst, apparently. Vera dared to call him a coward, and like a bolt of lightning had shot through his feet the second the words left her lips, his body had already decided to turn around before she’d finished her sentence.

How dare she.

How dare she assume anything?

She barely had time to see him coming. Vas crossed those few feet between them and moved on her like an eagle did when it swooped down on its prey. Swift, entirely sure, and right on the mark, talons at the ready. He wasn’t kind about the way his fingers curved around her neck, both hands fisting into her hair when he yanked her head up. There was no softness in the kiss he crushed down on her perfect, red mouth, those small but lush lips of hers trembling open when his teeth dragged down the flesh. He felt the heat of her breath pulse against his mouth a second before his tongue darted past her lips for a taste.

Hot sugar.

She was like hot sugar on his tongue, and once he’d gotten a taste, he dragged her even closer to keep her from pulling away. There was something too perfect about the way she just took his kiss—submitting to the roughness with brushes of her own lips and ragged breaths she couldn’t control.

He wasn’t scared for her to know that he wanted her; that wasn’t the core issue. He simply wasn’t in a position to be vocal or physical; not wide out in the open.

But if she wanted it.

If she had to know ...

Here it was.

Vaslav only broke their kiss once he’d licked practically every drop of pigment of her lipstick from her mouth, and he finished it off by wiping away what smudge remained on her right upper lip. She vibrated under his touch, her words a whisper along his thumb before he could pull it away when she said, “You didn’t have to get in your feelings about it. I only said it so you could know I wanted you to kiss me, too.”