Chapter 10 #3
“Just because you think that is true, doesn’t make it so. Your son obviously has it out for you. He’s more resourceful than you may want to give him credit for.”
“You may be right, but this one fact I know to be true.”
I can’t argue with a man who only wants to make me feel safe. He steps into my personal space and threads his fingers through my hair. The one simple gesture takes all the air out of my fight. I lean into his touch and let the heat of his palm against my cheek calm my nerves.
When silence falls between us it doesn’t last long, but in the few seconds he stands there looking at me, I wish I could trade places with Rowan and feel what it is like to live with so much confidence.
The day unfolds in a series of proximities that carry a different charge than yesterday.
Yesterday he told me he loved me, kissed me in the kitchen, fed me spaghetti, rubbed my feet, and held me all night.
This morning he called me his sunshine in Russian, stroked himself in a doorway while I watched, and then told me about a dead prisoner who knew my name.
Every touch that happens between us comes with an electrical charge against skin that is already buzzing from too much honesty and not enough follow-through.
It’s around noon and my Russian bodyguard is at the stove making eggs. The man has frustratingly remained shirtless all day just to drive me crazy.
So I’ve returned the favor. I reach past him for a glass, raising to the tips of my toes. I can feel the brush of air on my exposed ass cheeks.
And the heat of his gaze.
The growl only makes me smile.
In another moment, I go to grab a spatula to help him with a pan of bacon. My fingers brush his bare ribs and the man goes still.
The warmth of his skin against mine jolts me back to three hours ago when that same skin was pressed along the full length of my body in the dark. At this point I don’t know how is teasing who anymore.
“Sorry,” I offer with a look of pure innocence.
I'm at the spice rack looking for any signs of paprika that I might have overlooked yesterday.
He appears behind me to reach for the pepper.
His bare chest presses against my back, solid and warm, his breath moving the hair at the top of my head.
The position mirrors waking up in his arms and my body responds before my brain can tell my libido to calm the hell down.
I lean back half an inch. He doesn't move away. The pepper stays on the shelf because he’s too busy walking away and adjusting himself.
We eat at the counter. I'm on the stool, and he's opted to stand directly beside me. Somehow his knee ends up against mine and once again my body is ready for the pleasure to go further.
After lunch I wander into the library looking for a distraction.
His desk has a stack of blank paper and a cup of pencils with decent graphite weight.
I grab a handful of both and spread out on the living room floor, sketching the view through the cliff-face windows.
Lake Michigan in charcoal, the ridge line in soft graphite, the play of light on water.
My fingers move on autopilot while my brain replays every moment of this morning on a loop I can't shut off.
He settles on the couch with his tablet, a shirt finally on but unbuttoned, working through whatever intelligence reports fill his days. But the heat of his eyes is on me. I can feel the brush of his curiosity linger.
I'm lying on my stomach with my feet kicked up behind me and the pumpkin spice sweater has ridden up to the very tops of my thighs. The black lace is probably visible.
Checkmate.
I should pull the sweater down. I should sit up. I should do any number of responsible things a grown woman knows to do. But where is the fun in that?
I arch my back slightly and let the sweater ride up another inch.
"Would you come here, please," I ask without looking up. "I would love to add something."
He doesn't answer. But the tablet clicks against the side table.
Heavy footfalls thud against the marble, each one landing closer than the last until the scent of cedar and coffee wraps around me.
He lowers himself to the floor beside me, close enough that his body heat prickles against my bare arm without touching.
Warm fingers brush hair away from where it hangs against my face. "What are you adding?"
I smile up at him. "You. Can you stand in the window for me?"
I sketch fast. The broad shoulders, the jaw, the way he holds himself even when he's sitting. I add him to the composition, standing at the window, looking out at the lake. A figure shaped like solitude, watching the water.
He watches me draw him into my world. His breathing deepens, the rhythm slowing the way it does when his guard starts to slip. When I finish the rough outline and look up, he’s moved closer. His eyes drop to my mouth.
"Cora."
My name roughly spoken from his lips sends electricity straight down my spine.
"Yes, Rowan?" I know what he is thinking, because I’m thinking it too.
He doesn't answer with words. His fingers close around my wrist and he pulls me off the floor and onto my feet in one smooth motion. Before I can find my balance, his hand cups the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair, and then his mouth is on mine.
Every time this man kisses me, he walks away after. The terrace. The kitchen yesterday. This morning he didn't even need to kiss me to leave me wanting. Three days of him lighting a match and blowing it out before the fire catches.
This time there's no adrenaline, no interruption, no excuse. Just Rowan choosing my mouth while we are both bathed in afternoon light with every confession between us stacked like kindling.
His lips part mine and his tongue sweeps in.
The taste of Russian coffee fills my mouth and the ring on his finger presses cold against the back of my neck where his hand holds me close.
With his shirt open, his bare chest is warm through the thin sweater and I press into the contact, greedy for the feel of his skin under my touch again.
A gasp breaks from my mouth into his, completely involuntary, and his response is to pull me closer.
His other hand finds my hip, fingers pressing into the curve of it through the thin sweater, and the size of his palm spanning my hip bone makes me aware of every inch of difference between his body and mine.
He pulls back. His eyes are darker than I've ever seen them, the ice blue heated to a shade that could burn. His thumb traces my bottom lip.
"I should not have done that."
"Probably not."
"You are in my protection. Under my roof."
"Technically underground. And you've already said this. Twice. It doesn't get more convincing with repetition." I hold his gaze. "You stroked yourself in a doorway this morning while I watched, Rowan. I think we're past the 'I shouldn't have' stage."
The corner of his mouth twitches. There’s that almost smile of his again.
“You’re proving hard to resist.”
With that, the frustrating Russian leaves me with my racing pulse and my lips still tingling from the pressure of his mouth.
I watch him go and my whole body screams at the loss of contact. The push and pull is going to kill me faster than Nikolai.