Chapter 7 #3
A mechanical hum and the shift of gears tells me the elevator is bringing someone down.
I stand up, brush the dirt from my fingers.
He's back.
It doesn't take long for him to find me.
Goosebumps rush across my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, every nerve firing the same warning that a predator is close.
But not to hurt me. Every cell in my body knows the difference.
His presence rolls over me, warm and solid, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of his shirt against my back.
I don't turn around. The door to the terrace eases open.
The cold mountain air spills across my bare legs only to be chased away by the heat of him stepping up behind me.
Tension rolls through my body. Every nerve suddenly wakes and pays attention in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
I keep my eyes on the dead garden because if I turn around, I'll have to look at him, and I'm not sure if I can keep from falling into his arms and begging him to kiss me.
A little dramatic, but I had one helluva dream last night that has me wondering if his lips are as soft as they were in my dream.
I hold that truth close while my brain tries to work out where the sudden attraction comes from.
He's my ex's father. He semi-kidnapped me for my own good.
I'll work that out in therapy once this is all over.
He's twice my age and probably has a body count higher than my credit score.
None of this should be doing anything for me, and yet my pulse is racing and I'm hyperaware of how little fabric separates my body from his.
And then there’s the fact that I don’t have on panties. Again.
"You found it."
His voice is deeper than I remembered. Rougher. His accent is thicker, like he's not bothered to smooth it out.
"Kinda hard to miss." I gesture toward the raised beds to either side of me and the few in front toward the edge of the terrace floor. "It's the only thing in your entire compound that doesn't look like a minimalist designed it to zap the color from your life."
He doesn't respond to that. I risk a glance over my shoulder. Without him knowing, I take in the angle of his face. The slight space between his lips. Even the neatness of his trimmed beard. Nothing goes unnoticed. Especially the intensity of his eyes as he studies me, too.
He's changed clothes since last night. Fresh suit, dark as the others, no visible blood this time. A shopping bag with an expensive logo hangs from one hand.
"I brought you clothes."
He holds up the bag. I look at it, then at him, then at the bag again.
Turning to face him, I raise my brows in surprise. "You went shopping for me?" More than a little curious, I take a step in his direction. I no longer feel the whisper of his body heat play over my exposed skin.
Standing this close, the warmth rolling off him wraps around me and urges me to come closer.
His lips curve into a soft smile. "Yes," he simply answers and that one word pulls on the strings forming attachments to my heart where one Russian bodyguard is concerned. I file that little detail away, drag out a smile of my own and slip it on.
"Thank you." I don't move to take the bag. If I do, he could simply walk away and I don’t want to lose his warmth. "I borrowed your shirt. Hope you don't mind."
His eyes drop to the gray fabric hanging to my mid-thigh, then snap back to my face so fast I almost miss the detour. Heat flickers in his expression.
He raises a hand and moves in like he wants to move a fallen strand of hair from my face, but he stops short of touching me. He pulls back a little, but that easy grin is still in place. "I like it on you, malyshka. Keep it. I also like seeing you with nothing else on underneath."
I follow his line of sight to find my nipples have betrayed me again. Warmth hits my cheeks and I can only imagine how I look flustered, wearing nothing but his shirt to a man of his age. Like I’m horny and ready is how, pipes up a voice in my head.
I bite my lip, tempted to look away like I’ve done something wrong. But I’m not exactly shy. “Are you always so direct?”
I turn back to the garden or risk jumping my bodyguard slash wish granter in the middle of his dead garden. It’s not how I envisioned losing my virginity but it would be one helluva story to share if I ever have friends to tell.
Kneeling down, I clear off some dead leaves from the little weed. It might not be much to look at, but it’s lived despite the odds stacked against it. Which I know a little about.
The heat of his gaze tracks my moves.
"You don't have a second chair. Why is that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
I only get silence so I look over my shoulder to see him considering me with a blank expression like he doesn’t understand the question.
I point over my shoulder. "In the kitchen.
At the counter. You only have one chair, one glass and one mug.
I bet if I opened your drawers you would also have only one set of silverware.
" I pause. "One bedroom. Everything is singular down here. Why? Don’t you have company over?
Other women?" That last one pains me to ask. I don’t really want to–
“No one besides you has ever been inside my home.”
His voice drops lower on the words, the accent thickening around the edges. His eyes blaze with…old pain, I realize. He’s been hurt by someone or has lost someone close. I recognize it from what I’ve witnessed in my mother.
He holds the same ghost of hurt as she does. It’s there and then gone, but I see it before he can bury it again.
I purse my lips. “Oh.”
He’s loved and lost. No man with that much sorrow in his eyes doesn’t have a dark history. My heart softens toward him, and curiosity rushes in to fill the space.
I turn fully to face him and the wall of warmth coming off the massive Russian chases away the early morning chill. I step a fraction closer and he doesn't move. “I’m sorry.” I place a hand on his chest. Both to let him know I mean my words and for any kind of comfort I can offer.
“For what, malyshka?” He places his hand over mine and we stand like that for a few heartbeats. His gaze roams over my face.
I sense we are on the cusp of heading down a dark path should I answer his question. I don’t want to ruin our time together with the darkness of our pasts so I opt for a brighter topic.
I scrunch my face. "Better question, Daddy Volkov." The sharp inhale and flash of heat across his expression is exactly what I'm after. "If you didn't sleep in the bed with me last night, where did you sleep?"
"The chair," he answers but his attention is not on the turn of conversation.
I cock a brow, pretending to be very concerned. "The reading chair. In the library. Tsk. Tsk."
A brisk wind kicks up the cliff and twirls around us, sending chills to rush over my body. It also does other things to me and the man in front of me takes notice. Big time.
He lifts a heavy shoulder and leans into me, closing the distance between us. "Da," he answers but he’s not really focused on his answer.
His eyes drift over the gray material of my borrowed shirt to play over the hard tips of my nipples.
I don’t jerk away or bother to cover myself.
Why? It’s not like he’s never seen a woman, or me for that matter.
I’m completely naked under this thing and he hasn’t moved to hurt me once. I don’t feel I need to hide from him.
"That chair is not a bed." I offer in a softer voice.
"It's fine." He’s closer now. My hair tangles in the wind and he reaches out to calm it. In that one move I notice a lot about the man who put his life at risk to save mine. Like the scars on his chest where his dress shirt sits open. I see those and the dark ink sprawled across his hard pecs. The first is interesting. I don’t see how a man in his line of work doesn’t have more visible scars.
But the latter detail is a weakness that will get me into trouble big time.
A man with an accent and ink? God, it’s a miracle I didn’t jump him last night with all the adrenaline in my system.
I pick off an invisible piece of lint from his shirt and leave my hand resting over his heart.
He holds my hand captive against his chest and he leans in. Fire glitters in those pretty blues. I’m so mesmerized I don’t suspect his next moves.
I yelp when he drops the bag and hoists me up with a firm grip on my bare ass.
Strong fingers dig into the flesh of my cheeks. Two hundred pounds of Russian mafia man pins me to the rock wall. Hard muscle melts to my front and I can’t do anything about it.
Not true. His lips are so close all I have to do is lean forward half an inch and I’d be kissing him. That’s something.
Since I’m not going anywhere until he says, I wrap my legs around him and…
“Oh, fuck me,” I whisper against his lips as I feel I’m not the only one thinking of using our time together wisely. The hard ridge of his cock is only held back by the zipper of his slacks. One little tug and he could be free to work out all our pent up frustrations.
I shudder in his hold. And then I press my heels into him and draw him closer.
His groan reaches into me and strokes my bad-girl ego. I’m not one to go looking for kinky encounters with older men, I mean I am a virgin. But I feel if I don’t act on my desires when the opportunity strikes, I might die never knowing the pleasure a man gives a woman.
And if this isn't fate smiling on me after dragging me through hell, you tell me what is.
Pinned to the wall, I have little control over any part of my body. My arms are trapped between us with my hands on his muscular chest. That leaves one part of me that I can move.
So I do.
Not fast at first but I slowly pick up the pace. The pressure and burn of his pants against my clit is almost too much. But I can’t get it right where I need it in order to come.
“Let me help.” he husks in a deep, hungry growl.
My Russian cups my pussy, and presses the rough pad of his thumb against my clit. I gasp and buck in his tight hold.