Page 19

“Ah, Stas, you know me so well, but I like variety.” I took the string of lights from him. “Be careful now and don’t fall off the roof and accidentally break a hip.”

He snapped his head toward me, gray eyes flashing. “Don’t even think about it,” he growled.

“Wasn’t thinking of anything.”

He arched an eyebrow. We both knew I was lying. Nothing would give me more pleasure than watching him tumble over the edge. His blood would look so good splattered on the driveway.

“Yuriy.”

“I didn’t say you could stop calling me Orlov. In fact, Mr. Orlov has a nice ring to it. Sounds kinky. Like something you’d say while I’m stroking in and outta that pussy. What do you think, Stas?”

Stas shook his head and made a disgusted sound as if he was sorry he’d even tried communicating with me in the first place. His reaction only spurred me to push harder past his comfort zone since my sexuality seemed to bother him.

“Oh yes, Mr. Orlov.” I stapled a string of lights to the side of the roof. “Don’t stop, Mr. Orlov. Please fuck me harder, Mr. Orlov.” I glanced at him, pleased to find his cheeks pink, which could have been from the cold, but I’d bet my left ass cheek it wasn’t. My nipples were all stiff again and not definitely from the cold. I made a show of tugging at the front of my sweat pants over my erection and laughed. “Fuck, I’m even making myself horny.”

Stas’s jaw worked, a muscle ticking at the side. He didn’t rise to my bait. Not with words. Instead, he shifted closer, reached past me, and grabbed hold of the gutter with one large hand to steady the string of lights. His body brushed mine, warm even through the layers of winter air, and I stilled.

He was so close the smell of peppermint on his breath drifted toward me.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Goddammit, I was too aware of him, his scent, his heat, his sheer presence. He was slightly bigger, slightly taller than me, and I hated that. At the same time, it made my stomach uneasy.

“Making sure you⁠—”

He took another step, and his boot slipped. His weight pitched, and for one horrifying instant, Stanislav Zhukovsky—the immovable, untouchable, grumpy bastard—was about to tumble off the roof.

Instinct overrode everything else. I grabbed his coat front and yanked him hard against me as we both fell back against the roof, our chests colliding, my hand fisting his shirt to keep him from plummeting. My heart slammed in my throat.

For a moment, we just breathed. His gray eyes locked on mine, his chest heaving, our mouths close enough that if either of us leaned another inch…

Stas steadied himself, palms flat against the shingles, then hissed, “I thought you wanted to shove me off the roof. Why save me?”

I forced a grin, even though my pulse was hammering from more than adrenaline. “For my brother’s sake. He wouldn’t believe that I didn’t shove you, and it’d be the end of our relationship. I don’t like taking credit for something I didn’t do.”

His lips twitched, and the tiniest huff of air escaped—half disgust, half reluctant amusement.

So the bastard could smile. I scowled. Stas, without a smile, was much better. He wasn’t so…gorgeous.

The wind cut sharply between us, carrying the scent of pine, but all I felt was the press of him, his thigh brushing mine, his breath ghosting my cheek. I loosened my grip on his coat, but not completely. I was too aware of how solid he felt, how broad his shoulders were, how close his mouth hovered.

If I leaned close, I could taste those bitter lips.

“How’s it going up there?”

Fuck.

I released Stas and edged away as my brother stepped out onto the porch, tilting his head back to squint up at us.

“Your punk ass owes us a beer,” I called down, glad for the interruption. The weird tension between Zhukovsky and me fizzled, replaced by something easier—mock irritation. “When you invited us for Christmas, you didn’t mention making us your work elves.”

Zasha laughed. “If you had finished high school, you might have been smart enough to figure it out.”

I looked around for something to pelt him with but came up empty. “Fuck you. If I wasn’t busy raising your ass, would I have dropped out?”

“Well, there’s a lovely home-cooked meal that I can offer in compensation. Hope that’s enough.”

“That doesn’t count, you cheapskate. Zhukovsky cooked dinner, and I’m still debating whether I want to tempt fate.”