Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I shut up then, because odds are, he will. The man has the reflexes of a cat. The other day, I accidentally knocked a water glass off the table with my elbow, and Nikolai caught it in mid-air without pausing in the conversation. Another time, I tripped over one of Slava’s LEGO pieces and would’ve faceplanted, but Nikolai had his arms around me before I hit the floor—though he was on the other side of the room a second earlier.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was one of Slava’s comic book superheroes—or more likely, supervillains.
That label fits him as well as anything.
* * *
Later that night, as we enter our bedroom, something occurs to me in regard to our earlier conversation.
“If you’re so determined to nurture Slava’s independence, why are you so determined to shield me from any and all danger?” I ask, sitting down on the bed to watch Nikolai remove his jacket and tie. We’re still doing the formal attire at dinner, and I must admit I’ve grown to like it. Not only do I get to wear gorgeous dresses on a daily basis, but my husband is surreally handsome in those sharply tailored suits he favors.
It’s like we alternate between two realms: the daytime one where we go hiking in the wilderness and get dirty, and the evening one where glamour and glitz reign supreme.
“Because you’re not a child, and you weren’t raised the way I’m raising Slava,” Nikolai replies smoothly, undoing his cufflinks. “Your mom, as wonderful as she was, didn’t equip you to face assassins, zaychik… or men like me.”
I swallow hard, my blood heating up as he rakes his gaze over my still fully dressed body. Ever since our wedding, I’ve gotten better at reading Nikolai’s sexual moods and understanding what kind of night I’m in for. And tonight promises to be one of our wilder ones, the ones when I’m never quite sure how far he’ll go.
When I can sense the darkness in him, feel it rising close to the surface.
Not that I’m afraid of him. Not really. I know he won’t hurt me, at least not in any damaging way. I just sometimes get the sense that what we have isn’t quite enough for him, that his voracious hunger for me remains unsatisfied.
At times, it feels as if he wants to consume me, all of me, and nothing less will do.
He takes off his shirt, revealing beautifully defined muscles, and comes toward me, his movements once again reminding me of a big cat’s smooth, lethally graceful prowl.
Maybe he was a tiger in another life.
Maybe I was his prey.
Instinctively, I scoot backward on the bed, and his lips take on a wicked curve. As always, he knows what I’m thinking and feeling—and he likes what I’m feeling now.
He likes making me just a bit nervous.
Moving with that same predatory deliberateness, he climbs onto the bed and over me, pushing me down flat before catching my wrists and pinning them above my head with one hand.
My mouth goes dry at the look in his eyes, at the dark intensity within them. I dampen my lips, and his gaze follows the path of my tongue, his face tightening. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re filled with such scorching heat I feel like I could burn up on the spot. My heart hammers wildly, my skin flushing all over as he lowers his head and audibly inhales, as if hungry for the smell of my hair.
“Um, Nikolai…” I wriggle underneath him, my pulse surging higher as I feel the bulge pressing against my thighs. Even with the layers of his pants and my dress separating us, I can feel how hot and hard his erection is, how massive. I swallow again. “When you said ‘men like me,’ what did you mean, exactly?”
His lips brush my ear, the heat of his breath making me shiver as he whispers, “Oh, my sweet, curious zaychik… you’re about to find out.”
38
Chloe
A shudder ripples through my body, and he lifts his head to look at me, a dark smile tilting up the corners of his lips. I can all but feel him drinking in my trepidation, sadistically prolonging the anticipation.
I try to move my hands, to twist out of his grip, but it’s futile. His fingers are an iron shackle around my wrists, pinning them in place above my head. His smile deepens, the golden gleam in his eyes intensifying as I struggle, and I know that he enjoys this too, seeing me helpless in his grasp.
Dipping his head, he drags in another hungry inhale, then finally lets go of my wrists. Before I can let out a relieved breath, he flips me over onto my stomach and, holding me down with one big hand, pulls down the zipper of my dress. When it’s open all the way to my tailbone, he runs a warm palm down my bare spine, the roughness of his calluses scratching my skin pleasantly.