It’s his way of soaking up the moment, as he told me once, and I’m strangely picking up the habit.
I’d love to thread my fingers through his, but that’s not an option right now. One day, I’ll be able to hold his hand on the street.
One day.
When we’re inside the penthouse, I hurry to put the bags on the kitchen table so I can devour him. If I just drop them at the entrance, he’ll start nagging.
The sound of something hitting the floor reaches me first, then a strong grip lands on my bicep.
I whirl around, but I don’t have time to focus when Bran fists a hand in my hair and captures my lips in a violent kiss. His tongue invades my mouth and he feasts on me. I’m stunned for a second, but then I wrap my arms around his back and claim what’s fucking mine.
My hand falls to his ass and I nudge him up. He doesn’t complain as he hops on and wraps his legs around my waist.
God-fucking-damn-it. I love it when he lets me carry him. I’ve been doing it religiously since I first did it last week.
Bran kisses me for what seems like hours, his fingers stroking my hair, his breaths and his entire fucking being fusing with mine.
He pulls away and smiles against my mouth, then wipes something at the corner of my lips.
“Fuck, baby.” I pant. “What was that for?”
“I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you.” He strokes my cheek. “Let me down. I’ll wash up and prepare dinner.”
“No way in fuck am I letting you go after that. Buckle up, baby. Kolya would like to say hi.”
I walk him to the bedroom as his laugh echoes in the air.
One day, and I mean very, very soon, Bran won’t be content with only kissing me behind closed doors.
He’ll be proud about being with me just like I’m over the moon about being with him.
* * *
What the…?
I pause when I feel a weight on my shoulder and comforting warmth snuggled up to my side.
The last thing I remember is sitting on the floor with my back against the wall while waiting for Bran. He said he was running late because he was meeting up with his brother and sister, and you can bet that I grumbled and threw a fit about having to share him with anyone. So what if they’re his siblings?
It’s getting tragic at this point.
It’s been a week since the day he kissed me senseless after I stalked him then fucked him like a madman before allowing him to do anything. Good times.
Since then, I’ve been shamelessly insatiable for any glimpse of him. I need to see him every night, but even that isn’t enough, so I follow him around whenever I get the chance. But I have to keep a distance—not too difficult considering I’ve become a seasoned stalker at this point.
Anyway, I haven’t seen him at all today because of stupid tests that I couldn’t skip and was fucking desperate for ten p.m. to come since that’s when he usually shows up. However, my hopes got crushed when I received the text about his plans. I must’ve fallen asleep on the floor because right now, I’m on my back on the wood and Bran’s head rests on my shoulder, his body pressed up to my side.
And the best part? His hand covers mine over my chest.
He’s in a light-blue shirt and black pants, which means he didn’t change into pajamas. I check my watch and it’s two in the morning.
Fuck me.
I can’t believe I slept for so long and missed the chance to see my Bran.
I demand a redo, now and fucking thank you.
A frown appears between his brows and I smooth it with my index finger. His eyes pop open and I have to swallow something stuck in my throat, because fuck. How can a man look hotter with each passing day? This isn’t good for my uncontainable obsession.
“Did I wake you up?” I ask.
“It wasn’t a good sleep anyway,” he grumbles in that husky voice that goes straight to my dick and somewhere in my chest.
“Uh, baby? Why are you sleeping on the floor?”
“You were sprawled all over the ground when I came in and I wanted to experience it like you do, see if it’s as comfortable as you make it look. The answer is a definite no.” He sits up and kneads his shoulders and neck. “Don’t do this again, Nikolai. It’s not good for you in the long run.”
“I can only sleep in a bed when you’re there.” I sit behind him, extending my legs on either side of him, and massage his shoulders. “Be here and I won’t have to sleep on the floor.”
“Deal.” He leans into my touch and releases a soft sigh. I’m ravenous for the way he lets me touch him outside of sex now. I know he wasn’t comfortable about the prospect in the beginning, but he now does it so naturally that I have to stop myself from devouring him whole and leaving no crumbs.
How the hell is he able to get me worked up with a few sounds?
How did he mold the almighty Nikolai Sokolov into this strange entity that can only survive in his presence? I don’t even remember myself before him anymore. I certainly refuse the very notion of being separated from him.
“How was your night out?” I ask to put an end to this queasy feeling.
“One can’t complain.”
“So you enjoyed your time while I was being miserable.”
“You’re so dramatic. Besides, I thought you’d be busy with your shenanigans in the fight club.”
“I didn’t go. I wanted to see you.”
“Is that so?” he says in a slightly mocking tone.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.” He turns sideways so he’s facing me and raises a brow. “Have you done something I don’t approve of today?”
“Me? You’re the one who ghosted me.”
“Earlier today, did you or did you not take a picture with some leggy brunette?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and opens my IG in the tagged posts section and shows me the picture in question. A girl—that I honest to fuck don’t remember her name—is glued to my side, pushing her tits up against my arm. The captions is, Miss you, my hunk.
“Care to explain yourself?” Bran asks in an eerily calm tone. I’ve noticed that he becomes scarily collected when he’s mad.
“Uh, baby. That picture is months old, probably from before I met you. Not my fault she decided to post it today.”
“One of your fuck buddies?”
“Ex-fuck buddy. I barely remember her face. She’s from school, I think.”
“And yet, she has the liberty to call you her hunk?”
I grin. “Jealous, baby?”
He doesn’t smile back as he fists my hair in a painful grip. “You belong to me, Nikolai. I do not share, are we clear?”
“Fuck. I love it when you get all possessive.”
“That’s not an answer. I don’t want to see you with girls or guys hanging onto your arm or sitting on your lap. I don’t want anyone to touch you, period.”
“Only if you don’t let anyone touch you.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you going to delete that one picture with Clara on you IG?”
“You went that far back?”
“So what if I did? I’m going to need you to erase her existence from your life.”
“I’ve already deleted that post a long time ago.”
“In that case…” Grinning, I take out my phone, go to the post, and type a comment.
Nah, not your hunk. Delete this.
A smug smile curves Bran’s lips when he sees it and he nods with approval before he turns away and I resume massaging his shoulders. Fuck me. I love the feel of his relaxing muscles beneath my fingers and the content noises he releases.
“By the way, I googled the meaning of Brandon, and it literally means prince or king. Don’t I get brownie points for calling you Prince Charming?”
“More like stalkerish tendencies points. Who googles the meaning of other people’s names?”
“I do because it’s you. I’m curious about everything that concerns you.”
He leans his head on my shoulder, and my movements come to a halt when his eyes meet mine and he flashes me a little smile. That feeling lurking in my stomach lurches up and I feel trapped, completely and utterly taken by him and his rare smiles.
Jesus fucking Christ. What’s happening to me?
“Aren’t you curious about me?” My voice comes low, a bit vulnerable, and I don’t even do that. Why is it that Bran looks at me and I feel this sense…of doubt? Not in me, but in his feelings for me.
I can sense myself falling deeper and harder, but he’s still a blank board most of the time, and that does shit to me.
“I am,” he says softly.
“Are you going to google the meaning of my name?”
“No need. It’s the Slavic version of Nicholas who was the Greek god of victory.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I just know it’s a badass Russian name and means victory or something like that.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
“Sure as fuck. My grandad made sure my sisters and I do or else he wouldn’t have given us our Russian card.”
“I never heard you speak it.”
“I do sometimes with Jeremy and especially the guards since most of them are Russian-born.”
“Tell me something in Russian.”
I cup his chin and stare deep into those eyes that have become my undoing as I say the words Grandpa said Russians take seriously and literally. “Ya nee ma goo bees tee byah zhit.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re so cute,” I lie through my teeth.
He frowns. “Don’t call me that.”
I wrap my arm around his waist, trapping him in my grip. “Tell me something you noticed about me no one else knows.”
“What type of request is that?”
“Just do it.”
He lifts a hand and traces a line from my forehead over my nose. “Not sure if no one else knows this, but you have a perfectly symmetrical face. Most people have an eye or ear that’s slightly bigger that the other. They have a good side because it’s proportionally better than the opposite one, but you look perfect from any side, because everything is well-balanced. Even your upper and lower lip are the same size. Actually, your entire body is perfectly symmetrical.”
He strokes his fingers over my lips and they willingly part. God damn. He says a few words that imply he’s been watching me and I feel like I’m being torn apart. “You’re an artist’s dream muse.”
“Then make me yours.”
He laughs. “Maybe you already are.”
“Fuck yeah. That’s a good thing, right?”
“Maybe.” He continues stroking my face. “Your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“Tell me something you noticed about me no one else knows.”
“Hmm. You have eleven moles on your body.”
“Okay…”
“I’m not done. You have two hundred seventeen lashes on your right eye and two hundred twelve lashes on your left one.”
His lips part. “You…counted them?”
“Almost every night since you stayed over. That’s last night’s count. Might change today. You tend to lose some on your left eye.”
“But why would you count my lashes?”
“I love them. They’re dark and long and so fucking pretty when you’re sleeping. Besides, no one but me can count them, so that’s a huge bonus.”
He chuckles softly, the sound echoing around us like a lullaby. “You’re so weird.”
“I’ve always been.”
“That you have.”
“The only difference is that you’re not running away anymore.”
“No, I’m not.” He leans completely against my chest and closes his eyes. “Give me five and then I’m taking you to bed. From now on, you’re not allowed to sleep on the floor anymore.”
I have no words to say, so I lower my head and capture his lips in a slow kiss. That queasy feeling only gets more intense the longer my mouth ravages his. My insides melt when he meets me stroke for stroke, grunt for grunt.
If I wasn’t sure before, I am now.
I’m completely and irrevocably in trouble because of Brandon King.