Chapter 3 #2
"Yes, sir," he mumbled. He shot a resentful glare at me, then scrambled away, disappearing into the crowd.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
I turned to look at Roman. He was close now. Much closer than he had been across the room. I could see the flecks of grey in his blue eyes. I could see the shadow of stubble on his jaw.
"Thank you," I said stiffly. "But I had it handled."
"You were cornered against a refrigerator by a man who weighs two hundred and thirty pounds," Roman noted. He reached past me—his chest brushing the tips of my breasts, a fleeting contact that sent a shockwave straight to my core—and grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the shelf.
He handed it to me.
"Hydrate," he ordered.
"I don't like sparkling," I said, just to be difficult. "It tastes like TV static."
"Drink it," he said. "You look flushed."
He wasn't looking at my face. He was looking lower. His gaze traced the line of my corset, lingering on the exposed skin of my chest, then dropped to the metallic skirt.
His eyes darkened. The blue turned to navy.
"What are you wearing?" he asked softly.
"Clothes," I said, clutching the cold bottle. "It's a party, Volkov. People dress up."
"You are wearing tin foil," he murmured. He took a step closer. We were in the corner of the kitchen, shielded by the open fridge door and a stack of pizza boxes. It felt private. Intimate. "And you are asking for trouble."
"I can handle trouble," I challenged, lifting my chin. "I handled you, didn't I?"
His eyes snapped back to mine. A spark of anger mixed with something else—amusement? hunger?—flared there.
"You think you handled me?" he asked. His voice dropped to that rumble that vibrated in the floor. "Little One, I haven't even started with you."
The nickname made my knees weak. Little One. It was condescending. It was possessive. I hated it. I loved it.
"I'm not scared of you," I lied.
"You should be," he said.
He reached out. His large hand, rough with calluses, hovered near my hip. He didn't touch me. He just held his hand there, inches from the silver fabric of my skirt. I could feel the heat radiating from his palm.
"Why are you here, Vanessa?" he asked. "You were hiding in the dungeon all night. Why come up now?"
"I was thirsty," I said. "And the noise. It's... a lot."
"It's loud," he agreed. He didn't move his hand. "Come."
"Where?"
"Away from the idiots."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, heading toward the back hallway that led to the patio.
I followed him. Like a moth to a very large, very grumpy flame.
The back porch was empty. It was freezing, but the cold air felt good after the stifling heat of the kitchen.
Roman leaned against the railing, looking out at the snowy backyard. The light from the house cast long shadows across the snow.
I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering slightly. The mercury skirt had zero thermal properties.
"Here."
Roman stripped off his black Henley.
My brain short-circuited.
He wasn't wearing anything underneath.
I stared. I couldn't help it. His torso was a masterpiece of kinetic sculpture. Ridges of muscle, the V-line disappearing into his jeans, the scar on his hip that was stark white against his tanned skin. The tattoo on his bicep—a compass—flexed as he moved.
He handed me the shirt. It was warm from his body.
"Put it on," he said. "Before you get hypothermia and I have to explain to your father why his daughter is a popsicle."
I took the shirt. I should have refused. I should have thrown it in his face.
Instead, I pulled it over my head.
It swallowed me. The hem hit my mid-thigh, covering the skirt completely. It smelled like him. Intense. Masculine. Comforting.
I felt... safe.
Which was dangerous.
"Better?" he asked. He didn't seem cold, despite standing in the snow shirtless. He looked elemental. Like the cold was his natural habitat.
"Marginally," I said, burying my nose in the collar.
We stood in silence for a moment. The bass from the party was muffled here, a distant thrumming.
"The girl," I said. The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
Roman looked at me. "What girl?"
"The one in the kitchen. Hanging off you like a festive ornament."
He snorted. A short, sharp sound. "Tiffany. She is a Puck Bunny. She likes the jersey, not the man."
"She seemed to like the bicep pretty well," I muttered.
Roman turned fully toward me. He leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms over his bare chest. The moonlight caught the sharp angle of his cheekbone.
"Are you jealous, Vanessa?"
"No," I scoffed. "I just think it's unsanitary. You don't know where those hands have been."
"I don't like being touched," he said simply.
I frowned. "She was touching you."
"I tolerate it for the team morale. If I am rude to the fans, the donors get upset. It is... part of the job." He sounded exhausted.
"You tolerate it," I repeated.
"Yes."
"So you don't like it?"
He pushed off the railing and took a step toward me. The air between us charged up again, crackling like static electricity.
"I like control," he said softly. "I like to decide who touches me. And when."
He stopped in front of me. He was so tall. I had to tilt my head back to see his face.
"And who do you decide on?" I whispered. My heart was hammering against my ribs, loud enough to rival the bass inside.
He looked down at me. His gaze traced my face—my eyes, the freckles on my nose, my mouth painted fuchsia pink.
"Someone who asks," he said.
"I thought you didn't say please," I countered, my voice breathless.
"I don't," he murmured. "But you do."
He reached out. This time, he didn't stop.
His hand cupped my jaw. His thumb brushed against my bottom lip. His skin was rough, callused from the hockey stick. The contrast against my soft skin was electric.
I stopped breathing.
He leaned down. His face was inches from mine. I could feel his breath—warm, minty—on my lips.
"You have something of mine," he whispered.
I blinked, dazed. "What?"
"My shirt," he said. His thumb dragged down my lower lip, tugging it open slightly. "You look better in it than I do."
"I..." My brain was offline. "I have something of yours? I lost something of mine."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Your ring."
"Yes," I breathed. "My ring. The gold one. I think I lost it in the locker room."
"I found it," he said.
"You did?"
"I have it."
"Can I have it back?"
He leaned closer. His nose brushed mine. The scent of him was overwhelming now. Clove. Ice. Desire.
"No," he whispered against my mouth.
"Why?" I whined. It was a bratty, needy sound.
"Because," he murmured, his hand sliding from my jaw down to my throat, his thumb resting on my pulse point. He could feel how fast my heart was beating. "I like knowing that I have something you want. It gives me leverage."
"Leverage for what?"
"Negotiation."
He tilted his head. He was going to kiss me. I knew it. I wanted it. I rose on my tiptoes, my hands clutching the fabric of his shirt at my waist.
"Hey! Volkov! You out here?"
The door to the patio banged open.
We sprang apart like guilty teenagers.
Banksy stumbled out, holding two beers. He stopped when he saw us. He saw Roman, shirtless in the snow. He saw me, wearing Roman's shirt, looking flushed and guilty.
Banksy’s eyes went wide. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"Oh," he said. "Oh, I see. 'Respects boundaries,' huh? 'Very quiet roommate,' huh?"
"Banks," Roman growled, his voice a warning.
"Don't mind me," Banksy backed up, holding his hands up in surrender. "I just came to tell you the cops are here. Noise complaint. Party's over."
He winked at me. "Nice shirt, Princess."
He ducked back inside.
Roman let out a long, frustrated breath that puffed into the cold air. He ran a hand through his hair. The moment was shattered.
"Go inside," he said, his voice rough. "Go back to the basement. Before the police start asking for IDs."
"Roman," I started.
"Go," he ordered. He wouldn't look at me. He was shutting down. The Wall was back up.
I hesitated. I wanted to push him. I wanted to finish what we started.
But the flashing blue lights reflecting off the snow in the side yard told me he was right.
I turned and ran back inside, clutching his shirt around me like a shield.
I made it down to the basement just as the music cut off.
I locked the door. I leaned against it, sliding down until I hit the floor.
I was wearing his shirt. He had my ring.
And I was in so much trouble.
Because when he had looked at me with those cold blue eyes and told me I was wearing his clothes... I hadn't felt like a fraud. I hadn't felt like a disappointment.
I had felt like I belonged to him.
And that was the most terrifying feeling of all.