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“You wore green silk under your dress.” His eyes hold mine, refusing to let me look away.
I swallow. “You found the strap with your teeth.”
His mouth tightens. We’re both remembering the same room now.
He backed me against the hotel door before it finished closing, then stopped with both hands beside my head and asked if I wanted him there. I said yes, and he made me say it again while his thumb moved over my lower lip.
He undressed me slowly enough to make patience obscene. He knelt to remove my shoes, kissed the inside of my ankle, then followed the seam of my stocking until my knees opened for him. When I tried to pull him up, he held my thigh and told me he hadn’t finished learning me.
“You put me on the dining table,” I say, staring at his mouth.
“You knocked over the champagne bucket.” His voice turns rough.
“You laughed.”
“You bit my shoulder.” He touches the scar near his collarbone.
“You told me to do it harder.”
He steps closer and grips the back of the chair beside me. “You left before I could find you.”
“Your phone rang, and men came to the door.” I shake my head. “You left first.”
“I came back.” He’s close enough for his shirt to brush my sweater. “The suite was empty.”
Silence settles between us, crowded with everything we never said.
His hand rises and cups my face. “I remember your mouth.” His thumb brushes beneath it. “I remember how you looked at me from the bed when I asked if you wanted more.”
Heat climbs beneath my skin.
“You made me answer every time,” I whisper, gripping his wrist.
“You liked making me wait.” His forehead touches mine. “You never made me wait long.”
A laugh almost escapes me.
Then Alexei goes still.
His hand drops from my face. His gaze searches mine, then shifts to the library doors. He crosses the room and locks them, and when he turns back to me, I see the exact moment he begins counting backward.
“Tell me the truth, Vera.” His voice is rougher now. “Is Misha my son?”
13
ALEXEI
She doesn't answer.
The clock marks the silence, and I watch her decide what to do with the question I've just put between us. Her hand comes up and presses flat against my chest, and I feel the warmth of her palm sink through cotton into the skin beneath.
"Don't do that," I say.
"Do what?"
"Touch me when I'm asking you something that matters."
Her fingers spread wider over my sternum, and her eyes hold mine with the same focus she uses when she checks my wounds. She's deciding how deep to cut. "You're angry."
