Chapter 12 – Eduard #2
“You just look…different. That’s all,” she explained, shrugging like she hadn’t just been caught. “I thought you only wore white and black. Suits and all.”
I moved closer, towering over her as she took a tiny step backward.
“I’m coming from the gym. And, of course, I wear tees and joggers when I’m not at work,” I pointed out. Then, I asked in a tone just above a whisper, “Is that all you were looking at?”
I could hear her labored breaths as I bent my head closer.
“What do you think?” she uttered.
I gripped her waist, and her back was against the wall in an instant.
“Don’t dare me,” I warned before my lips claimed hers.
Our lips moved with fervor, and I pulled her body closer to mine, letting the feel of her breasts against the soft cotton of my shirt drive me crazy. Her fingers went to my hair, and I felt my dick harden. Our tongues fought for dominance, our desires heating up by the second.
I ended the kiss.
“Baby,” I crooned, my hands on both sides of her face. “Don’t push me. I don’t trust myself to hold back.”
“Baby? Since when?”
“Since now,” I revealed, lifting her chin to drop a kiss on her swollen lips.
My thumb grazed her lip.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
She shook her head.
“Eat with me.”
She raised a brow, asking a silent question.
“I’ll shower and be down in ten minutes,” I told her, going ahead into the bedroom.
I didn’t try to push the thoughts of our kiss away as I showered.
Why should I?
She’s my wife now.
She was mine to hold and protect.
I thought back to when the endearment slipped past my lips.
I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t realize I said it out loud. But it wasn’t a huge surprise, either. I’d been referring to her that way in my mind for several hours.
“You’re going to walk around in joggers and tees every day now?” Marielle asked as she stepped out of the kitchen.
She sat to my left, just like we did before we became a couple.
“How does it feel?”
“Um, what?” she asked, bringing her eyes from her food to my face.
“Being married.”
“How it’s supposed to be, I guess. We’re not exactly married by choice, are we?” she asked, chuckling lightly.
Deflecting. Something I’d discovered she did when she was uncomfortable or feeling awkward.
“I had a choice,” I pointed out.
She didn’t say anything, and I didn’t push.
“Where’s your phone?” I asked her after a few minutes of eating in silence.
“Upstairs. Why?”
“How can I not have my wife’s phone number?”
She turned back to her food too quickly to be unaffected.
I wasn’t unaffected either.
Holding my phone out to her, I told her, “Your phone number.”
A surge of electricity moved through me from where her warm fingers brushed mine.
She dropped the phone on the table beside my plate after typing in her number. Picking it up, I entered the contact name and saved it.
“You’ll have your own guards from now on.”
“What? Why? I mean, it’s not necessary. It’s not like I ever leave the house.”
“True, but you were also in the house when Lucien’s men came the last time. Even if you don’t go out, they can come here to attack.”
She didn’t respond, so I went on.
“Marielle, the whole reason for this arrangement was to protect you, am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I’m going to do just that, and you won’t stop me. You agreed to accept my protection when you said yes.”
“Right,” she muttered before facing her food again.
I felt anger rise from within me. Not toward her but at the whole situation.
I had no idea how to diffuse the riot I’d just caused.
Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it when we were eating.
“Are you actually Russian?” she asked before looking up from her food.
I didn’t answer right away; I wasn’t expecting her to ask that or even say anything at all.
“Yes. My brothers and I were born and brought up in Vladivostok.”
She nodded.
“Why did you ask? It was so random.”
She shrugged.
“I was just wondering if you just run a Russian organization or if you’re really Russian.”
“Okay. What about you? Fully American?”
“Nope. My paternal grandfather was French,” she replied. Then, she added, “My last name is French.”
“Really?”
“Marielle Rue. That’s my full name.”
“Marielle Rue,” I repeated, loving the sound of it.
Silence reigned—a peaceful kind, this time—before I asked, “Do you know my full name?”
“Eduard Yezhov. Of course, I know your full name.”
I thought of what to do to make her say it again. But I came up with nothing.
“How old are you?”
“You don’t ask a lady her age!” she chastised playfully.
“How else am I supposed to know? Besides, this lady happens to be my wife.”
“I’m 21.”
“Older than you look. Younger than you sound.”
“Is that some kind of backhanded compliment?”
“It was a genuine compliment.”
She nodded.
“Do you want to know my age?”
She scrunched up her face like she was in deep thought.
“Tell me.”
“37.”
“Wow!”
My confusion must have been clearly written on my face because she explained, “I knew you weren’t in my age bracket, but I didn’t think you’d be….”
“So old?”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m surprised. You look way younger than someone who will be forty in a few years.”
“Is that your way of saying I look good?”
“Get off your high horse, Eduard!” she uttered, laughing.
Damn.
I loved that sound.
But I loved something even more.
“I love how my name rolls off your lips.”
She said nothing but didn’t look away either.
What happened to never getting close to any woman?