Chapter 10
Ten
Cora
Iwake up wrapped in warmth and pulled tight against a body that dwarfs mine in every direction.
I shift my weight a fraction and my human furnace tightens his arms around my waist. Last night I fell asleep on the couch with a book in hand. Rowan must have carried me to bed and ditched the chair.
I smile against his forearm and as if he can read my thoughts, a low sound rumbles through his chest and vibrates against my spine.
I turn my head slowly, careful not to wake him, and let my gaze travel.
His face is inches from mine on the pillow.
Dirty blond hair falls across his forehead, the gray at his temples catching the blue light from the pool.
Sleep has softened the hard lines of his jaw, loosened the permanent tension he carries between his brows.
His lashes are darker than his hair, thick against his cheekbones, and his lips are parted just enough that I can feel the warm rhythm of his breath against my shoulder.
He looks younger like this. Less Bratva king, more man.
He's not fully awake, but his body knows I'm here.
His fingers spread wide against my stomach, his palm pressing flat, the heat of his skin against mine sending a jolt through every nerve I own.
I trace the veins running over the back of his hand, follow the dark ink of the viper's head across his knuckles to the bare finger where the silver ring usually sits.
He nuzzles his face into my hair and inhales. His hips shift and the hard length of him presses against my ass, thick and insistent even in sleep. A groan drags from his throat, rough and raw, and his arm locks down tighter like he's afraid I'll vanish.
My pulse hammers. My brain scrambles for clues on what to do next.
I roll in his arms and that is when I realize he stripped me of every piece of clothing I had on. Even the panties. It's amazing how little time I've spent wearing them around this man and I'm still a virgin.
But naked Rowan is a sight that deserves a slow, thorough inventory.
His chest is broad and scarred in places.
Bratva ink spreads across his pecs in dark lines that disappear over his shoulders.
I follow the tattoos down to where a dusting of blond hair trails from his navel, thinning into a line that leads south.
The muscles of his stomach are cut but not gym-made, earned from decades of loading cargo and throwing men through walls.
A faded scar hooks beneath his left rib, puckered and silver.
Another one curves along his hip, thin as a blade.
I lift a leg to settle it over his hip. He's going to be pissed or very happy in a minute. I'm betting the latter. Patience has never been my strong suit. And I don't see why I need to wait for a man to make a move on me when he's literally climbed into bed with me naked.
I would be a fool to waste such a beautiful hard-on.
I trace the tip of my finger over the trail of hair leading from his navel, following the line down, down, until the heat radiating off his cock warms my knuckles before I even make contact. He's thick, heavy, the skin impossibly smooth when I brush against the length of him.
I move to wrap my fingers around him. This is so wrong. So fucking wrong.
I ease away. If anything happens, it has to come from him. He's the one with the major hangup about taking me. I can lie here naked, wet, and willing, but crossing that line while he sleeps makes me no better than the men he protects me from.
He wants me. His cock is hard against my thigh, his arm banded around me, his body pulling me closer even while his brain is still offline.
And yet I know the second those ice-blue eyes open all the way, the walls go back up.
The pull, the push, the torture of a man who tells me he loves me over spaghetti, holds me all night like a vow, and then retreats to protect me from himself before breakfast.
My heart doesn't know what to do with him. One minute I'm pinned to a wall with his tongue teasing mine. In the next he's retreating to his office like I'm a live grenade he’s afraid will go off in his hands.
But right now, in the blue light of the pool rippling across the ceiling, he's holding me and I'm holding back.
His breath fans warm across my forehead.
My leg is still draped over his hip, my fingers resting against the hard plane of his stomach where I stopped myself from going further.
His cock pulses against my inner thigh, hot and heavy, and the restraint it takes not to shift my hips forward and take what I want burns through my muscles.
I close my eyes and press my forehead against his collarbone. Just enough contact to memorize the scent of his skin up close. Cedar and pine.
I can't stay here forever. This underground world with its black marble, blue lights and temptations is mine, but on borrowed time.
Nikolai is out there. My shop is closed.
My sister can't reach me. Reality is circling the perimeter like the wolves I heard in the woods the night Rowan brought me here.
But reality can wait five more minutes.
I thread my fingers through his where they rest against my bare hip, squeeze once, and let myself live in a moment I know has an expiration date.
His arm tightens in response, pulling me impossibly closer until every inch of my front is flush against his.
His lips brush my temple and then move to my ear.
“Mm. Moye solnyshko. It’s early. Why are you not sleeping?" His voice is rough with sleep, in a sexy way.
"Moye solnyshko," I softly repeat. "What does that mean?"
"My sunshine."
I blink back the instant sting behind my eyes and hold on tighter.
We stay like that for a while. Minutes, maybe. Long enough that the blue light shifts across the ceiling and his breathing deepens like he might drift back to sleep. Long enough that I memorize the exact weight of his arm across my waist and the exact temperature of his skin against mine.
Then he stirs. His arm loosens. I feel the moment his brain comes fully online because his body changes, the muscles in his chest and stomach tightening, the easy warmth replaced by alertness.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head then slides out of bed and crosses to the bathroom.
Naked. Completely, gloriously naked, walking across black marble like he's crossing a boardroom and not giving me a front-row seat to the most spectacular male body I've ever laid eyes on.
I prop myself up on one elbow and stare. No shame. Zero.
His back is a canvas of Bratva ink and raised scars, the muscles shifting beneath the artwork with every step.
His ass is tight, carved from decades of dock work, and the dimples at the base of his spine make my mouth go dry.
The viper tattoo coils from his hand up his forearm and disappears over his shoulder into a sprawl of Scandinavian runes I want to trace with my tongue.
The bathroom door stays open. Of course it does. I listen to the water run, the scrub of a toothbrush, the rinse and spit. Domestic sounds that have no business being this sexy coming from a man who executes people for a living.
He walks back out and my brain short-circuits.
Front view is even better than the back.
Broad chest dusted with blond hair, the ink spreading across his pecs in dark lines, the faded scars I catalogued earlier glowing silver in the blue light.
His stomach is flat and cut, that trail of hair leading down to a cock that is still half-hard and swinging with the easy confidence of a man who has no idea what the sight of him is doing to my nervous system.
Or maybe he does. The ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth when my eyes take too long coming back up to his face.
He braces one hand against the doorframe, leans into it. "Coffee?"
"Da." I pull the sheet up to my chin, not because I'm modest. HA! Far from it. No, this girl needs something to grip before I launch myself across the room. "And from now on, you serve it like this. Naked. Every morning. Non-negotiable." I can’t keep the grin out of my tone. A girl can wish, right?
Both of his brows rise. The smirk breaks into a real grin and it is devastating to all the heartstrings I’ve formed for this man. The smile crinkles the corners of his eyes and softens every hard angle of his face, making me curious about forever with him.
"You are something else, malyshka."
Horny is what I am. How he’s ignoring the fact his beautiful cock is hard and ready is beyond me.
My pulse races at what I’m about to say, but I don’t let that stop me. The words sizzle through me like wildfire and I deliver them with all the heat running through my veins. "I know. Now go make my coffee, Daddy Volkov."
The grin vanishes into a look so heated the temperature of the room spikes. My core tightens. And I can’t keep from pressing my thighs together.
He palms his shaft and strokes the full length once, pre-cum spilling from the tip to wet his fingers.
“You’re dangerously close to not getting any coffee, moye solnyshko." His words are more of a growl than anything else.
“Don’t tease me, Russian.”
The spark inside me is about to make my body spontaneously combust just from watching.
This is wrong—according to him.
This is insane—according to me.
But God help both of us, I can’t stop the feelings.
…And I don’t want to.
His jaw flexes once and tightens his fingers from his other hand around the doorframe. For several seconds I watch him wrestle down whatever just detonated behind those ice-blue eyes.
Having won or lost the silent argument with himself, Rowan pushes off the frame and disappears down the hall. Still naked. Only his cock looks ready to drive into me without control.
“If only…” So close, yet so far.
I fall back against the pillow, press both hands over my face, and grin so hard my cheeks ache.
I pad to the closet, still naked, still warm from his side of the bed, and stop in the doorway.