Chapter 13 #2
I instinctively tried to hide my hand, but it was too late.
Brad noticed my bare ring finger, his smile growing more confident. "Beautiful lady, lying isn't a good habit. A married woman wouldn't go without her wedding ring, would she?"
Damn it. I'd left that ring in my room! I cursed silently.
All because of that damn sex dream, making me panic and flee without even remembering the most important "prop"!
"I just took it off to wash my hands this morning and forgot to put it back on." I tried to explain, but even I could hear how flimsy the excuse sounded.
"Really?" Brad clearly didn't believe me. He leaned forward, trying to close the distance between us. "Well, since your 'husband' isn't here, why don't you let me keep you company for breakfast? Afterward we could hit the beach. My yacht's docked at the marina—I could take you for a cruise—"
"Touch her, and I'll skin you alive."
A deep male voice exploded in the air.
The next second, a long, powerful arm reached from behind me, wrapped around my shoulders, and pulled me back into a warm, aggressively possessive embrace.
The familiar scent of deep tobacco and expensive cologne flooded my nose. Roman.
I stiffened, my back pressed tight against his burning chest. I could even feel his heart beating steadily in his chest.
Brad's smile froze on his face.
Roman wasn't looking at me. His dark brown eyes were fixed on the man across from us. Like a predator deciding how its prey should die.
Brad clearly sensed the danger. His body unconsciously shrank back, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
"Darling," Roman suddenly lowered his head, his lips barely grazing my ear, his low voice carrying a trace of wicked amusement. "You left in such a hurry, you even forgot this important thing on the bathroom counter."
As he spoke, he naturally took my left hand.
Under Brad's horrified gaze, Roman slowly, irrefutably slid the emerald diamond ring onto my ring finger. Then he lowered his head and placed a kiss on my knuckle.
His lips were warm and rough, with a touch that made my heart race. When his lips brushed across the skin of my finger, a current-like shiver ran from my fingertip straight to my heart.
He raised his eyes again, looking at the man now shaking like a leaf.
He said nothing, just tilted his head slightly.
Brad's face went white.
He clearly wasn't a complete idiot—he could see just how dangerous Roman was.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know she was already owned... I'll leave right now... sorry..." He scrambled to his feet, the chair screeching, forgetting even his sunglasses as he practically fled the restaurant.
I watched his retreating figure, not sure whether to laugh or feel relieved.
But soon, I realized a more serious problem—Roman still had his arm around me, and we were ridiculously close.
I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
And this position, this feeling—it was exactly like a scene from the dream.
"He's gone. Enough with the act. Let go of me!" I jerked away from his embrace like I'd been electrocuted, pushing him hard.
I clenched my fists, whirled around, fully prepared—if he dared lecture me about not wearing the ring, I was going to punch that handsome face of his.
At least that would help me differentiate reality from dreams.
"You—"
My words cut off. The moment I saw him clearly, I froze.
Roman Sokolov was wearing only a black luxury linen shirt.
Without the constraint of a tie, the collar hung open three buttons, shamelessly exposing his sexy bronze chest and collarbone.
A dark silver cross necklace disappeared into the shadows of his muscles, and his arms—usually locked tight with cufflinks—now had sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, revealing solid forearms and those Bratva tattoos full of blood and violence.
He'd shed the ascetic coldness of his suits, replaced by a wild, visually stunning laziness and danger. He was like a lion fresh from patrolling his territory, shedding his disguise, radiating suffocating lethal testosterone.
Oh God.
The absurd dream from last night flashed through my mind again unbidden—those powerful arms pinning me to the couch, that open shirt with his burning chest pressed tight against me, sweat sliding down his taut muscle lines...
I covered my face with my hands.
"What, shy now?"
Roman tilted his head slightly, dark brown eyes glinting with wicked amusement. His lips curved into a dangerously bad smile as he stepped forward.
His massive frame instantly closed in, his huge shadow completely enveloping me.
"Or," his low, husky voice carried undisguised provocation, warm breath brushing my hair, "did you suddenly realize I'm exactly your type?"
"In your dreams! You narcissistic asshole!"
Mortified and furious, I stepped back, my waist hitting the table edge. Nowhere left to go. I gripped my dress, knuckles white, glaring at him defensively, trying to mask my racing heart with anger.
He watched me with amusement for a moment, then, under my tense gaze, suddenly stepped back, pulled out the chair across from me with deliberate slowness, and sat down with his long legs casually crossed.
"Sit down, Kitten." His voice was low and steady, carrying undeniable control. "Can't properly enjoy your breakfast standing up."
"Don't call me Kitten!" I snapped back indignantly, but stiffly sat down anyway. "And I already ate breakfast!"
"Did you?" Roman raised an eyebrow, his gaze dropping to my barely touched plate. "Half a piece of toast and three strawberries? Mrs. Sokolova, that's not enough."
He waved over a server and, in fluent English, ordered a lavish brunch—Eggs Benedict, fresh baked bread, bacon, and a large glass of mixed juice.
"I told you I'm not hungry—"
"You need your strength." He cut me off, those dark brown eyes looking at me meaningfully. "Snorkeling is physically demanding. I don't want my wife passing out in the ocean from low blood sugar."
When he said "my wife," his tone carried such strong possession that my heart started racing uncontrollably again.
"Besides..." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, getting closer. "If you did pass out, I'd have to give you mouth-to-mouth. While I'd be more than happy to do that, I imagine Mrs. Sokolova wouldn't enjoy being kissed in public."
"Roman Sokolov!" My face burned again. "Can you be serious for one second?"
"I am being serious." He looked innocent, but the laughter in his eyes betrayed him. "I'm just concerned about my wife's health. Isn't that what a husband should do?"
I opened my mouth but found myself completely unable to argue.
Because he was... actually right.
At least on the surface.
But his tone, that look in his eyes, and the dangerous testosterone radiating from his body all reminded me—
Roman Sokolov was absolutely not as "serious" as he appeared.
The server arrived with the lavish breakfast, mercifully breaking the combustible tension between us.
Roman pushed the plate of butter-fragrant Eggs Benedict directly in front of me, tapping the table twice.
"Eat it, Kitten." His gaze locked unabashedly on my lips. "Or do you need me to feed you in a more 'efficient' way?"
"Shut up!" I practically ground my teeth, gripping the fork so hard my knuckles went white.
To prevent this lunatic from doing something even more outrageous in public, I could only admit defeat, cutting a piece of hollandaise-covered poached egg and shoving it in my mouth.
He leaned back in his chair, lazily crossing his long legs, just watching me silently. That look wasn't some attentive husband—it was a top predator with endless patience, watching with interest as prey fell into its trap.
My breathing became difficult, my taste buds too tense to properly register the food. With each swallow, I could feel his gaze like electrified vines crawling and tightening along my exposed skin.
Just as I frantically reached for my glass, trying to gulp down juice to suppress the strange heat in my chest, a drop of golden liquid spilled out, catching on the corner of my lip.
Before I could reach for my napkin, Roman suddenly leaned forward.
His hand lifted, thumb pressing without hesitation on my lower lip.
"Mm—" I froze completely.
With agonizingly slow movement, he dragged across my soft lip, wiping away that drop of juice. Then, as I watched in shock, he brought that juice-stained finger back to his own mouth and licked it.
"Very sweet." His lips curved into a wicked smile.
My brain went blank.
My heart pounded wildly in my chest, ready to leap out of my throat.
I stared at him, finally realizing with dismay one fact—around Roman Sokolov, there was no such thing as "safe boundaries."
Riley's words still echoed in my ears, but what terrified me was... my body was actually trembling faintly, as if anticipating something to come.