Chapter 16 – VALENTINA
Sixteen
VALENTINA
There’s something about a man moving with confidence in a kitchen that’s pure sex appeal. I watch him, taut muscle, inked forearms flexing as he slices through red onions like he’s trying to seduce me.
And fuck, it’s working.
I knock back the last sip of my second glass of wine, tongue running along my teeth. Or was it my third? Probably a sign I should cut myself off, especially if I’m sitting here jealous of a goddamn vegetable.
Cole wasn’t the first man in my life, but nothing about those first experiences is worth remembering.
Sex was…fine. After three years, it turned into an obligation more than something I wanted.
Predictable. Routine. Not awful, but not exciting either.
I got off, he got off. At the time, I thought—what else was there?
But looking at Maksim now…maybe there’s something to be said about an older man. About experience.
A moan builds in my throat, and I swallow it back, imagining his huge hand wrapped around my neck. His mouth on my body. My fingers tangled in that dark hair. My thighs clench, heat crawling up my skin, and I press a hand to the table as I push to my feet before I come just from my thoughts.
Against my better judgment, I refill my glass and ditch the crutches, using the island for leverage until I’m standing beside the very thing threatening to unravel me.
I’m a masochist. Sue me.
“So…Maksim Belov knows his way around a kitchen. I’m impressed,” I say, nearly spilling wine as I steady myself against the counter, a few drops splattering the floor.
“Are you trying to hurt yourself?”
Maksim is all hard edges and scowls, but with me, there’s something different. Softer. Still, that dominance is never far. It hums beneath every word and every look. I love it.
“Been there, done that.”
I try to hop onto the counter, but between the wine and my broken foot, the move is a mess. Wine sloshes out of my glass again, spilling down the front of Maksim’s shirt.
“Fuck! I’m sorry—”
Before I can panic, his hands are on my hips. He lifts me onto the island as if I weigh nothing. No lecture, no scowl, not even a word. He just strips his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, crouches to wipe the puddle at his feet, and I sit there watching, useless.
Is there anything this man does that isn’t sexy? Must be the wine. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just him.
The thought drifts into a spiral I can’t stop.
For a second, I picture him in a late-night infomercial, shirtless, an apron hanging low, wiping counters like a wet dream with a phone number flashing at the bottom of the screen.
My Maxy, with vultures lined up to gawk and touch? Absolutely fucking not.
Scratch that daydream.
“I’ve been on my own a long time,” he says, straightening and tossing the ruined rag into the sink. “It was either learn or starve.”
My eyes drag across his chest, over the ink that coils across his muscle, and I can’t resist. “What, no personal chef? No…pretty Russian girlfriend?” I tip the rest of my wine into my mouth before I lose the nerve.
“What do you think?” His grin crooks, and it makes my thighs clench.
I’m not thinking. Just please fuck me.
My eyes widen. I don’t know if I thought it or said it. But he keeps stirring the sauce, not a single hitch in his movement, so maybe I’m safe.
Maybe.
“Can I have a taste?” My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and I catch the flicker in his gaze as it follows the motion. Maksim dips the spoon, blows once, and lifts it toward me. He never looks away as I open my mouth for him.
The flavor bursts on my tongue, and I can’t hold back a moan, throaty and louder than it should be. His jaw works tighter. “Have you ever cooked for anyone else, Maksim?”
“No.” His voice is raw. A drop slides down my chin, and his finger is there instantly, swiping it away.
I catch his wrist before he can retreat. “Just me? I’m your first?” My words drop to a murmur as I guide his hand closer, bringing his fingers to my lips. “So what you’re saying is…I popped your cherry, Ruso?”
I slide his fingers into my mouth, sucking slowly and swallowing down to the knuckle. His growl rumbles deep, shaking the space between us.
“Fuck,” he grits out, and it’s everything I want to hear.
“Maksim,” I whisper, vulnerability in my voice.
His hand crawls up my throat, his grip firm enough to make me shiver. “I’m not a righteous man. I take what I want…and ruin everything I touch.”
My palms brace against his chest as I tip my face up, lashes low. “Ruin me.”
Maksim's exhale is hot against my skin, lips dragging against my ear. “Valentina…”
“What?” The word scrapes out of me, barely there.
“I think you’ve had a little too much to drink.”