Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(21)

What the hell is going on in that head of yours, Mikhail?





Chapter 8





Dimitri calls on Tuesday afternoon to tell me we hit another dead end with the Albanians, making the sour mood I’ve been in for days even worse. I stand up from my desk, walk to the wall of windows overlooking the street below.

After Sisi came to collect Lena for a sleepover, Bianca went into the gym, carrying her ballet shoes and her phone. A few minutes later, a soft sound of a classic melody reached my office. That was four hours ago. I’ve tried to ignore it and do some work, but images of her dancing kept popping into my head, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

I’ve also been trying to avoid her for the last two days, because every time I see her, I have this maddening urge to grab her, drag her to my bedroom, and fuck her senseless. Before I married her, I had sex regularly. Each of my partners knew my rules, the main one being no touching. But Bianca . . . I wanted to touch her everywhere.

I don’t know if Bianca would be up for it. She looked so shocked when she saw my arm. It lasted just a fraction of a second, and if I wasn’t paying attention, I would have missed it because she collected herself right away. My chest and back are in a much worse state than my arms, and I have no idea how she’ll react upon seeing that. She’ll see me without a shirt eventually. Maybe I should start wearing T-shirts in front of her, let her see my arms better so she can be somewhat prepared. I take the hem of my shirt and pull it up to my chest, regarding the scarred skin and trying to imagine looking at it through her eyes. Nope, nothing can prepare her for that.

As bad as it is, my right eye is so much worse. That, she’ll never see.

The music coming from the gym changes to a slow rock ballad, and I can’t ignore the mad craving to see her dancing one second more. At the gym door, I take care to be as quiet as possible as I open it and then lean onto the doorjamb to watch her. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized top that falls off one shoulder. Her hair is piled atop of her head in a messy knot. Her feet are bare, the ballet slippers lying discarded next to the wall, as she glides across the room in a complicated set of steps and jumps. She finishes in a beautiful pirouette.

I wait for her to turn around, but for several minutes, she just stands there, looking at the wall in front of her with her hands pressed to her lower back. When she finally turns, her eyes are red, and tears are falling down her face. She flinches when she notices me, then quickly looks away and starts walking toward her ballet slippers. She winces every couple of steps, her right hand still pressed at her lower back. That’s when it comes to me. The reason why her parts in the plays got shorter over the last few months. Why she decided to leave the troupe. I remember the poster that said it was her last show. I thought it meant for the season. It didn’t.

It takes me several large strides to reach her and scoop her in my arms. She doesn’t resist, just hooks her arms around my neck and places her head on my shoulder, still facing me. The tears are still falling, but the expression on her face is strangely blank. If not for tears and red eyes, no one would know she’s crying. I carry her to the living room and sit down on the couch, holding her close to my chest. It’s strange, how much I enjoy having her body pressed into mine. There is a folded blanket on the side, so I take it and cover her, tucking it around her chin and legs. She feels so small snuggled into me, like a kitten.

I don’t know how long we sit like that. Probably close to an hour passes, because the night starts falling and the room gets darker. She’s been so still, I started to wonder if she fell asleep, but then her hand moves, tracing lines on my chest. At first, I think it’s a random pattern, but then I notice the repetition of the shapes. She’s drawing letters with her finger, and it takes me a few moments to catch up. It’s not that hard, just two short words, but I still wait for her to repeat the pattern a few more times to be sure I caught it right.





I notice the exact moment when Mikhail realizes what I’m drawing in his chest, because his body tenses. Just in case, I do it one more time and trace the letters.

K-I-S-S M-E

He doesn’t do anything at first, but then I feel his finger caressing my cheek. I hook my hand around his neck and rise to a sitting position, straddling him with my legs. Only the outline of his face is visible in the darkness. Night had fallen outside, and none of the lights in the room are on. There is enough light coming through the window for me to see his head bending down, and the next moment, his lips crash onto mine.

It’s not light or subdued, but a claiming. His hands cradle my face. The skin of his palms is hard and calloused, but the way he holds me, as if I’m something precious, is heartbreaking. I bury my fingers in his hair and let myself be devoured by his sinful lips while the fire of desire consumes me. He breaks the kiss and starts trailing kisses down my chin, and I lean into him, feeling his hardness pressing into my core while my breath comes in short quick bursts. I reach for the hem of my top and take it off, then proceed to unclasp my bra, but my hands are shaking too much so I slip it off over my head.

“Are you sure, Bianca?” Mikhail whispers in my ear and then places a kiss on the side of my neck.

Is he crazy? I’ve been imagining this for days. I place my mouth on his chin and bite him lightly.

It’s like he had been restraining himself up until that point, waiting for my confirmation. He jumps up from the couch with me in his arms, and carries me toward his bedroom. All the while, I try my best to unbutton his shirt. I manage to undo the first two buttons, but there are at least five more, and I can’t concentrate on undoing all of them. Instead, I thrust my hands into the opening, grab both sides of the shirt, and yank them apart with all my might. The material tears. Buttons spring free and fall to the floor.