I HAD NOW BECOME JUST another third.
I knew it.
He knew it.
The freaking stewardess probably knew it.
He sat on the foot of the bed, his elbows on his knees. The presence emanating from him didn’t feel like regret, but something very, very thoughtful. Deliberative. I imagined this was how plans for world domination were made.
I sighed and stretched out like a cat. “Gosh, I’m starving.”
“You have no idea what starving is.” The words were soft and pensive, like he wasn’t even aware he’d said it.
I was momentarily stunned.
Because now I knew, at some point in this man’s life, he’d gone hungry.
I didn’t let myself dwell on it or else the questions would explode from me like confetti, and we all knew how he felt about opening up.
He was still stuck in his thoughts while I grabbed his dress shirt and slipped it on. I was buttoning it up and walking past him to the door when he grabbed my wrist.
“Where are you going?”
“Going to find some peanuts. Crossing my fingers the Bureau splurged with the hard-working man’s money and have some covered in chocolate.”
He pulled me closer, until I stood between his legs. “We landed ten minutes ago.”
“We did?” I frowned. “How did I miss that?”
Something sexy played in his eyes. “You were too busy calling out for God.”
I wished it didn’t happen, but I couldn’t stop it.
I flushed.
When he ran a thumb across my cheek, warmth crept into my heart and melted.
“Tell me you hate me, malyshka.”
The way he said it, so deep and vehement, slowed the blood in my veins. It reminded me of the heavy weight of his body against mine. Of his hands holding me down.
I tried to say it. I really did. However, as much as it confused me, I couldn’t physically push those words past my lips. So, instead, I pulled away from him, flustered with myself.
“This is ridiculous.”
“You don’t hate me,” he said, voice low and resigned. “But by the time this is over, you might.”
“This?”
“Us.”
Déjà vu played down my spine with something warm and electric.
He watched me with an unsettling conviction in his eyes, while my heart chugged to keep up with the feelings warring inside. The last one to crawl out of the shadows of my mind—the one I was most familiar with—won. Panic. I’d been stuck in two unwanted marriages for the last eight years of my life. The idea of any kind of commitment embodied a fist that wrapped around my lungs and squeezed. I tried to mask it as best I could, but I knew he saw it all over my face.
His jaw ticked, a shutter coming down over his eyes. “I’m talking about sex, Gianna.”
Oh.
“You mean, like, just sex?”
He nodded, flicking his gaze away from me. “Temporary. Until I move back to Seattle.”
Oh.
The fist around my lungs released, but his words had left a sting behind.
Though, for some reason, the glint in his gaze before he’d looked away felt . . . untruthful. A gut instinct told me he was lying to me, but I just wasn’t sure about what. I knew he was attracted to me, knew he wanted me in a sexual way—maybe he even enjoyed sparring with me—but it was too hard to believe he was interested in me seriously. I was messy. He was as strait-laced as they came.
“Aren’t you in a relationship with Aleksandra?” I realized it made me sound like a homewrecker, having just begged him to come inside me for goodness’ sake, but really, I had so many deeper issues than this.
“No.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
“I have never slept with her.”
I was a little unsettled by the tsunami wave of relief that hit me.
He wanted to sleep with me four times? I didn’t know if I should feel special or terrified. I was leaning toward a mixture of both.
I bit my lip in deliberation.
Wasn’t I just telling myself I needed to stop sleeping with him? Why was I even contemplating this? My mind spun in turmoil, but my body had already decided. It was still vibrating in gratification from the two intense orgasms he’d just wrung from me.
“I’ll make it so good for you, malyshka.”
A tortured moan crawled up my throat, but I couldn’t get rid of a tingling sense of warning in the back of my head. Why did this feel like a trap?
“I don’t know . . .”
“I don’t see the problem.” His eyes flickered with a challenge. “Unless you think you’ll fall for me.”
Ugh.
He had me backed into a corner now.
I’d have to admit I was in danger of falling for him or let him fuck me for however long he was staying in New York.
What a ruthless bastard.
Though, maybe this was what I needed. I didn’t want to give up sex, but I also didn’t want to have to search for another man to take Christian’s place. A scoff sounded in my mind—like that was even possible. I could use him, just like he’d be using me, couldn’t I?
I fingered the hem of his shirt. “I’ll have some stipulations, of course.”
“Of course.”
Walking back and forth in front of him, I listed them off.
“I’m not a sex slave. I won’t drop to my knees when you snap your fingers, like you expect all your other women to.”
He was amused. “That’ll be a hard habit for me to break, but I’ll work on it.”
“I know how witty and exciting you think I am and that you love spending time with me, but I’m a busy woman. You have to respect my space.”
His tone was dry. “You read trashy novels by the pool and spend the rest of your time at Barneys.”
I ignored him and made the next stipulation sound so serious it made him smile. “You have to kiss me whenever I want.”
“Done.”
“Condoms, Christian. You have to learn how to put one on.”
“Fine.”
My eyes narrowed, because he’d given in to that way too easily.
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know what kind of kink you’re into, but there are some hard no’s for me.” I was obviously a pervert because I couldn’t think of many as I ticked them off on my fingers. “Ball-and-gag-like bondage . . . tickling—hard, hard no on that one—and, preferably, no backdoor action.”
He stood, making me look up to meet his gaze. “Is that it?”
“I think so,” I answered hesitantly, not liking the look in his eye.
“Yes to the first two, no to the last.” He fisted my shirt and dragged me closer, pressing the next words to my ear. “I’m going to ruin every part of your body for any other man, malyshka, and you’re going to thank me when I’m done.”
I was making a deal with the devil.
And I couldn’t even find the grace to save myself.
The morning after we’d returned from Chicago, I was struggling with my lock before heading to yoga. Christian just happened to be leaving his apartment at the same time. Our gazes caught. Time lagged in slow motion, touching my skin like a heat wave and leaving me hot, flustered, and out of breath. This was where I would usually have something witty to say, but, in truth, I felt . . . shy?
He’d screwed me against my door last evening after driving me home. It was hot and fast and rough. Then, afterward, he’d just kissed me. He’d kissed me for so long my brain became mush, my legs turned to Jell-O, and my heart began to burn. And then he’d left me breathless and thinking about him for a ridiculous amount of time.
Now, from only a little eye-contact, heat bloomed beneath my skin, and all the extra-special things I could be saying were stuck in my throat.
What’s happening to me?
When he left me standing there without a word, like I was the annoying neighbor nobody wanted to run into, I let out a breath, relieved.
I didn’t know what I would have said if he hadn’t.
There was a feeling in my chest, heavy, and unstable, and consuming.
It felt too close to panic.
I spent the daylight hours of the next five days shaving my legs, watching infomercials, painting my toenails—basically anything to stay busy until nine o’clock. Because that was when he would come. He’d ignore me in the hall during the day, but once the sun set, it was like I was the only woman left on the planet.
Christian had a routine.
And I’d become obsessed with watching it.
He started with his watch, unclasping it and placing it on my dresser. His cufflinks came next. He set them on the side of his Rolex, approximately an inch to the right. My favorite was the tie—with his eyes on me, he worked the knot loose, slipped it off his neck.
Then, he started on his shirt buttons, the sleeves first and then his collar. He left it on and undone while he worked on his belt, which he rolled up neatly. In truth, that was the only foreplay I needed. His shoes were the next to go—lined up beside each other. Then, he stripped, setting his clothes on the back of my divan.
I would have made fun of him just a week before. But now, I only found it so sexy I sat on the edge of my bed just to watch it.
We did this sex thing backward.
It never started with kissing.
But it always ended with it.
As soon as he was undressed, I made my way over to him. He fisted a hand in my hair while I kissed a path from his chest to his stomach to lower, taking him in my mouth.
I was just another volunteer.
But he always reciprocated.
When I’d taken him to the point he let out a hiss or some rough Russian word, his grip in my hair pulled my mouth away from him and me up to my feet, then he walked me backward to my bed.
Anticipation coiled like a hot wire in my stomach when my back hit the sheets. He started off slowly, pulling off the tiny or lacy panties I always put on for him. Then, he’d press his face between my legs, holding my thighs tightly, like this was something he’d always wanted, and he was afraid someone would take it away. He wouldn’t stop until I was digging my nails into his arms and shuddering with release.
He wore a condom the first night, but the next, he’d gotten me so hot, so desperate, to feel him bare inside I’d begged for, “Just the tip.” The tip had become a few more inches, and then we were just fucking.
He liked to take me from behind, sometimes with me on all fours, sometimes kneeling, with my back pressed to his front and his hands on my breasts. I loved it any way, but he was right—my favorite was missionary. With his arms braced on the bed beside me, with his stomach muscles tightening every thrust, and the intensity in his eyes burning into mine.
Trying to be semi-responsible, I didn’t beg him to come inside me again. He always pulled out, coming on a new part of my body every time. And then, for a moment, we just breathed, heavy puffs against each other’s skin. While still breathless, he kissed me, short and sweet, before pulling me to the bathroom and starting the shower.
He washed the come off my body, and then he washed my hair. I’d never shampooed my hair so much in my life—my hairstylist was going to kill me—but surely, if she’d had this man’s hands in her hair just once, she’d understand.
When he was done, he’d kiss me under the spray of the water. Until I was panting and begging for him to fuck me.
But he never did.
I knew he wanted to. He was hard, letting out a tortured rumble when I wrapped my hand around him, but he would only slow the kiss and step away from me.
I loved when he got a phone call, because when he did, he would stay longer. He’d sit on the divan in my room talking in Russian while he watched me comb my hair, rub lotion on my skin, and get dressed in some slinky thing I was dying for him to give in and take back off. The heat of his gaze followed my every movement, leaving my skin sensitive and hyperaware. As soon as he finished his conversation, he’d leave, when I was already impatient for him to return.
I hadn’t had a man in my personal space since Antonio, and even then, he’d never washed my hair, gone down on me half as much as this one did, or watched me with a look in his eyes that made me burn.
I could get used to it.
And that scared me.
Thursday morning at yoga, Val was prattling about the new guy she was seeing. The instructor had already threatened to kick us out twice for talking and we were working toward a third. In my defense, I was hardly involved in the conversation because I was stuck in some Christian-induced dreamland.
Last night, as his hands had been working shampoo through my hair, I’d asked him if he had a weird hair fetish. His reply was, “Only for yours.”
“Why?” I’d asked breathlessly.
“I love your hair, malyshka. It’s the first part of you I saw—the back of your head at your wedding. And then you turned around and looked right at me. But you weren’t looking at me—you were looking past me, toward your new husband, with this infatuated glow in your eyes. The first woman I wanted to look at me was too busy staring at another man. That was when I started to hate him—and I still do, even though he is dead”—his voice roughened with a slight accent—“because he got that look from you, and I never have.”
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” Val’s voice pulled me back to reality.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. You’ve had this post-orgasmic look on your face all morning.”
“Shh,” I whispered when the instructor shot us a glare.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” She crossed a leg over the other and stretched her torso. “It’s not like I don’t share everything with you. Though I guess I did forget to tell you I finally made it all the way with Christian.”
My heart stopped. And the look I gave her could kill.
She smirked. “And that answers that question.”
I’d just gotten played. Though, it made me realize, the mere idea of Val sleeping with Christian disturbed me more than it should have.
“God, you’re such a bitch.”
She laughed.
“All right, ladies, out! This is a sanctuary, and you’ve shit all over it this morning.”
I walked to the coffee shop on autopilot, and I was so distracted with thoughts of him, I ended up telling the barista the wrong order—even though I’d gotten the same drink for years. That was when I realized what a mess he was making of my life.
Five days.
It had only taken five days for me to feel like I needed to find a support group for Christian addicts. I’d had my reservations about this just sex relationship from the beginning, and I should’ve trusted my gut. I was losing all sense of control fast, and I needed to cut the cord now before I became just another mindless Christian groupie.
That evening, I paced back and forth, planning out exactly what I would say. Because I knew if I didn’t have a strong argument, he’d win, like he always did. But when a knock sounded on my door and I answered it, all the words I’d planned to say flew out of my head like a flutter of butterflies. He must have had my body trained, because just the sight of him sent my skin buzzing in anticipation.
I swallowed.
His eyes narrowed on me in suspicion. “Let me in, malyshka.”
I did, even though that hadn’t been the initial plan. He headed to my bedroom like he did every night, and I inhaled a breath to find some resolve before following him. He was already slipping off his watch when I reached him.
“We should stop having sex,” I blurted.
He didn’t even look at me while he worked on his cufflinks. “No.”
“No?”
“That’s what I said.”
I flushed. “You can’t just say no, Christian.”
“Give me one good reason why we should stop,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt, growing closer to revealing that stupid happy trail on his lower stomach.
“Because!” I sputtered. “God, would you stop taking off your clothes?”
“Because is not good enough.”
“Fine! I could name off a whole novel-sized list of reasons. My grande Caramel Mocha, for one—”
“I’ve waited all day to fuck you, Gianna. I haven’t been able to think about anything else but you. Are you done talking now?”
The heat in his eyes seeped into my bloodstream and dulled my anger.
I swallowed. “I swear, it’s like talking to a concrete wall with you.”
He ran a thumb across my cheek. “Brick wall.”
He was in nothing but a pair of briefs now, his body heat wrapping around mine and stealing my breath.
“Don’t tell me no, malyshka.” His voice was so deep and almost desperate, like he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if I denied him.
I wished I could say I held my ground.
But as soon as he kissed me, promising to fuck me missionary against my lips, it was all over.
