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“After telling me it’s cold? No, thanks. I’m not the masochist you are.”

“What’s wrong with being a masochist?” He crawled toward me, grinning like sin and starlight. “Come on. You faced down the Italians, but you’re scared of the cold?”

“I’m not scared.”

“Prove it.”

I exhaled through my nose. “Fine, but after this, we return to the hotel. I don’t want to walk around with wet pants.”

I lowered myself beside him with as much dignity as I could muster. The snow was cold, but his laughter warmed everything around us.

“Can’t believe I let you talk me into this. Is my name even Stanislav Zhukovsky anymore?”

“Is that you expressing your wish for me to make you an Orlov?”

“As if.”

But the scowl melted off my face, and I at least made an effort, moving my arms around.

“That’s terrible,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do you even know what a snow angel looks like?”

“I don’t like lying on the ground in snow, getting my underwear wet.”

He rolled onto his side and nudged me. “You like being beside me, though.”

I reached over and pulled him closer. Snow angels be damned. His breath hitched, and he parted his lips slightly as snowflakes clung to his long lashes.

I kissed him.

He slid his fingers into my hair, and I curled mine around his waist. The world disappeared, snow muffling everything until all I felt was him. Yuriy moaned, pressing closer to me, then jerked back abruptly, scrambling away.

“Shit—your men—” He wiped at his mouth. “They’re watching⁠—”

“They’ll be discreet,” I murmured, pulling him in again. Shocked but discreet.

“Stas—”

“It’s already done, Yuriy. I can't take it back.” I brushed my thumb over his lower lip. “Nor do I want to.”

Yuriy blinked, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or kiss me again, so he did both. He slipped his hands up my chest, and my breath fogged his cheek. He melted against me with a soft, quiet sound of contentment.

And under the streetlamps, under the falling snow, under the watch of men who pretended not to see, Yuriy smiled again. All was right with my world again.

27

YURIY

Asmile curled my lips as I stared at Stanislav next to me. He’d slept through the night like a man who’d tired himself out riding dick last night. Which he had. I’d let him play around with it to his heart’s content—he had a very unhealthy obsession with my piercings—before putting him on all fours while he clung to the headboard, concluding what was easily the best night of my life with a mutual climax that left us tangled in each other.

One of his arms was flung carelessly over the pillow. The other was resting where it had fallen at my waist sometime in the night. His brow wasn’t furrowed the way it usually was when he was awake. His mouth wasn’t set like he was bracing for impact. He looked… peaceful.

It shouldn’t suit him, but somehow, it made him beautiful.

I traced the shape of his shoulder with my eyes, the relaxed line of his throat, the slow rise and fall of his chest. The man who ruled the mob with ice-cold precision. The man whose name made people go quiet. Curled into sleep like he trusted the room to keep him safe.