Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I’m so lost in my work that I don’t hear him until he’s behind me. I turn much too late to cover the painting. Dimitri stands in a tight-fitting blue shirt, the top button undone, his hands opening and closing as though just seeing me makes his lust burn.
“That’s beautiful,” he says.
I look at the work—the faceless woman with brown hair, her hospital gown, and the baby in her arms. “It’s just… an experiment.”
“Well, keep experimenting.”
He moves closer, then sweeps me into his arms. Every single time we do this, no matter how long it’s been, it’s got the fresh electric excitement of the first. I pull myself against him, forgetting all that stuff about being trapped, caged. I can forget it with him, but when he’s gone, it makes me panic. So what’s the solution? Never leave his side like the biggest clinger ever?
“You’re right,” he says after a passionate kiss. “It’s time I stepped up. It’s time I chose my path instead of picking the easiest one. My father is gone. We can make a difference.”
“We?” I murmur.
He leans back slightly, cupping my face in his hands, two palms to two cheeks, like he wants me to feel his warmth, his strength. I feel so tiny in his hands. That should make me want to run, but feeling small is nice, like something big, bad, and dangerous is protecting me—my man’s primal, deadly side.
“Do you trust me?” he says.
The small girl who found her mom, whose world fell to pieces, tries to scream, No! I can’t, but that would be a lie. He saved my life. It goes beyond anything that’s happened. It’s just a feeling, a profound certainty that was born the first time I saw him. I can try to deny it all I want, but when I saw Dimitri Sokolov walking through the office, my podcast faded to silence, my heartbeat hammered, and my world changed.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Then you need to wait,” he replies. “The day after tomorrow, we’re having a party. I want you there at my side.”
“At your side?” I say. “Won’t that be too obvious?”
“We won’t show any affection,” he says, then smooths his hands down my sides, stopping at my hips. “It will be difficult, hell, almost impossible, but I’m tired of hiding and running.”
He kisses me again, sinking his hands into my hips. It brings my body back to last night, technically, this morning. He lights me up just like he did then when all I wanted was for him to slip a little lower, a little closer to me, to grind inside and take me over and over.
“Is that painting of you?” he asks passionately.
I grab his arms and lean back, shaking my head on instinct. Then I remember what he said when we were half asleep. I remember the look in his eyes when I mentioned the morning-after pill after our super dirty steaminess.
“I don’t… I never wanted kids,” I tell him.
He’s silent for a moment, contemplating my words, and then says, “Wanted. Past tense. Why?”
“I thought I’d be better off on my own.”
“Past tense again,” he says passionately. “What about now?”
“Do people normally talk about having kids one week in?”
“Don’t try to pretend we’re normal, Lia,” he says with a wild look in his hard eyes. “The CEO and the cleaner. The Bratva boss and the art prodigy. You’re almost half my age.”
“I don’t care about that,” I tell him.
“I know. Neither do I,” he smirks, “but we’re not normal. So tell me.”
“I can’t think about the future or children.”
“I thought the same.” He kisses me on the lips. “Until you fired me up and made me see. We have to live, Lia. We have to choose to live.”
“What are you saying?”
He hesitates. I imagine him blurting, I love you. What would I say? Would that make me want to run even more? Or would it make us feel even closer?
“I’m asking you a question…”
I gesture at the painting. “She doesn’t have a face. She could be anybody. Me. Mila. Ania. Anyone.”
I don’t know why I mention Mila and Ania. Maybe because, as sad as it is, they’re the only women I know.
“Not Ania,” he mutters.
“What do you mean?” I lower my voice, though we’re alone. “Is she… ill or something?”
“No, but she’s too fragile. Too vulnerable.”
“She’s only eighteen. Give her time.”
I don’t know why I’m defending her with so much passion. I guess I feel closer to her after last night, as if I’ve got to take care of her or something.
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “She’s always been so… fragile.”
“I was just making a point, anyway,” I tell him.
“So when you were painting it, you weren’t thinking about yourself?”
“Do you want me to have been thinking about myself?”
He clenches his jaw, and I know that’s not the follow-up he wanted or expected. After a long pause, he says, “Have lunch with me before I head back to the city.”