GIANNA
I WAS SOAKING WET AND shivering when we got back to his apartment. He tugged me inside to the bathroom, where he undressed me down to the heels on my feet. The air sat heavy with some unnamed emotion between us, and somehow, both of us knew, saying a word would only congest it further.
Love might have been an annoying, elusive word I’d never understand, but I knew right then and there, I loved the feel of his hands on me, the complete attention he gave me as he washed my body and hair, as if I was the only woman he’d ever seen. As if I was perfect.
He slipped one of his undershirts over my head and then took me to bed, wrapping his arm around my waist. My limbs and eyes felt heavy with sleep, but the night had provoked a desperate need to feel him inside me. I shifted back against his erection, knowing he’d been hard before we even got in the shower.
He let out a tense breath, then grabbed my hip and stopped me.
“Go to sleep, malyshka.”
I wanted to know why he obviously wanted me and still denied me, but soon grew too tired to press it. I twisted around and fell asleep with my face in his chest and his hand in my hair.
The next few nights went similarly.
He asked me to stay and make him dinner before he left in the morning. I must have been an internal misogynist because I did. It didn’t take long to realize that, even as meticulously clean and organized as it was, I loved being in his space and having something to look forward to, like cooking for him.
What I didn’t love?
The fact he wouldn’t sleep with me.
Before the kissing and heavy petting could get too far, he’d pull away, and then I’d hear, “Go to sleep, malyshka. I’m tired.”
The man wasn’t tired. He slept an average of three hours a night. I’d usually wake up in the middle of the night to find him sitting at the kitchen island on his laptop or going through paperwork. He was so sexy at three in the morning I couldn’t resist sitting on his lap and kissing his mouth and neck until he grumbled in frustration and told me to go put my ass back in his bed.
The third night, I even crossed my arms and refused to come to bed with him. He chuckled, picked me up off the couch, and carried me to the bedroom.
I sighed in frustration, moaning, “I feel used,” while rolling over onto my side.
Amusement coated his tone. “How so?”
“You eat my dinner and then don’t fuck me afterward. It’s rude, Christian.”
He laughed. That warm, deep laugh that was too sexy to be angry with.
He usually went to the gym and showered before I even awoke. But a couple times, I woke up to use the bathroom and found him shaving at the sink.
“I have to pee,” I told him.
“Then pee.” He made no move to leave.
I hesitated.
I wasn’t modest about my bodily functions, but as I sat on the toilet and peed in front of Christian Allister, it felt so taboo it made me squirm. And it might have turned me on a little. His humored gaze slid to me as I finished my business, a stupid flush rising to my cheeks when I realized he could probably read my twisted thoughts on my face.
When I was done, I sat on the sink in front of him, placing my legs on either side of his. I leaned back on my hands, just looking at him and the steady strokes of the razor.
A corner of his lips lifted.
That was when I realized I loved to watch him shave.
He was shirtless, only wearing a pair of white briefs. My gaze settled on his tattoos, and I ran a finger across the rose on his chest.
“Tell me what this one means.”
His movements stilled for a second before resuming. I wished I could be in his head at that moment. To understand why he was so conflicted about sharing things with me.
“It means I turned eighteen in prison.”
I held in my surprise that he’d answered me without a fight and focused on tracing the rose with a finger. “When did you get out?”
“Nineteen.”
I was only nine when he’d first gone to prison, and fourteen when he’d been released. I’d never had a picturesque childhood, but I was beginning to believe this man’s was deeper and darker than I had ever imagined.
My fingers trailed lower to his ribs, to a tattoo I hadn’t noticed before. It was a constellation; I recognized the open-squared shape. I’d found it with a telescope before, all because of a single night on a terrace. Andromeda. It looked darker, fresher than the rest of his tattoos.
“When did you get this one?”
Instead of answering me, he kissed me, lightly nipping my bottom lip. Breathless heat burned beneath my skin, because that was the only answer I needed.
“How do you know so much about the stars?” I asked.
“I read. A lot. There wasn’t much else to do in prison.”
“You remember everything you read, don’t you?”
“Mostly.”
No wonder he’d mastered English so impeccably—heck, he knew it better than me. It was surreal to think this man had gained a lot of his knowledge from books while locked up in some Russian prison. A part of me was curious about what he’d done to get imprisoned, but I’d never ask him. I’d learned a long time ago to stay out of a man’s business. If you didn’t know anything, you wouldn’t be lying if interrogated. Also, there were just some things about the men in this life a woman didn’t want to know.
“So, when did you come to the United States?”
“The day after I was released.”
I kissed his chest, looked up at him, and said light-heartedly, “I’m sure immigration loved getting your application.”
Amusement played in his eyes. “My record was clean, malyshka. I have a knack for technology. I could find out where the President is eating breakfast right now, take a picture, and anonymously post it on social media, all from my kitchen.”
My eyes widened. “Are you telling me, as long as I’m somewhere near a camera, you could find me and watch me on your computer?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t done it, have you?”
“That would be morally questionable.”
“Yes, it would,” I said pointedly.
A genius and a criminal rolled into one. It made a terrifying combination.
I decided not to question him further on that topic. “Didn’t you miss your family when you moved to another country?”
And just like that, I hit a brick wall.
His stomach tensed subtly beneath my hands, and his tone went cold. “I have to finish getting ready for work, malyshka.”
That was a dismissal if I’d ever heard one. Though, pleased with how far I’d gotten, I hopped down and went back to bed.
That night, I was so far past sexually frustrated, I decided to be a bit craftier. I wore the sexiest underwear I owned, a pair of knitted thigh-high socks, and nothing else. I was in the middle of making dinner when he came home. He stilled, his eyes going dark as they traveled over me.
He sat at the island, pulled off his tie, and narrowed his gaze.
I’d screwed up his routine.
The heat of his eyes followed me everywhere in the kitchen. I made sure to bend over slower and more often than necessary. If there was one battle I was going to win between us, it was this one.
We ate in companionable silence, but I couldn’t even taste the food because just the way he looked at me sent every nerve ending tingling beneath my skin. He helped me rinse off the dishes and clean up the kitchen. Then, he held my face and kissed me softly on the lips.
“Thank you for dinner, malyshka.”
That was when I knew I loved his soft side.
I sat on his lap, his hand playing with my hair, while we watched some political debate on CNN. I couldn’t even pretend to pay attention to a second of it with his hard-on pressed against my ass. A part of me knew what he was doing by denying me. I didn’t like it. Because it made my chest feel tight and heavy. And that unsettled me.
Somewhere between the beginning and the end, my legs had straddled his, my hands were in his hair, and my lips were parting his as I flicked my tongue into his mouth.
He groaned.
The kiss deepened, and I grinded against his erection. I was so turned-on my vision grew hazy, my blood burned, and I was sure I was getting his pants wet by rubbing against him.
“God, I want you,” I breathed into his mouth.