Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(43)

“Well, shit.” He squeezes his temples. “Okay, I’ll talk with Maxim, maybe he can take over . . .”

“No. Information extraction is my job. And anyway, who could be a better interrogator than someone who experienced most of the torture techniques himself?”





“Oh my God, this is amazing.” Nina moans and reaches with her fork toward the pot again.

The big cook, who is standing on the other side of the table, grabs the pot by the handle and slides it toward himself, speaking something in Russian and pointing behind his back.

“Baby wants it.” Nina grabs the other handle of the pot and starts pulling it back to her.

The cook lets go of the pot, throws his hands in the air, and walks away.

“Baby card works every time. Igor doesn’t understand much, but he knows that word.” Nina grins, takes another forkful of the pasta, and stuffs it in her mouth.

I can’t help but laugh, grab another fork and join her.

A throat clears behind me, and I turn and find Mikhail pulling a chair and sitting next to me.

“Is that our dinner?” He quirks a brow. “The one the four of us should be eating together? In the dining room?”

I put down the fork. “Nina started it. I had to join. It would be rude to let the pakhan’s wife eat alone.”

“I see . . .” He cocks his head a little and leans toward me. “Can I have a taste?”

I smile, take a little bit of the pasta on the fork, and lift it to his mouth. Nina is watching the whole ordeal from the other side of the table with wide eyes, her mouth gaping open.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles, but Mikhail ignores her comment.

“You made it? I thought they invited you to dinner, not to make one.”

“Well, technically, Igor made it,” Nina throws in. “Bianca instructed him, and I helped with the translation.”

“I wonder how that worked out.”

“I pointed. And Nina poked Igor in the ribs when he didn’t follow.”

Mikhail raises his hand to brush his finger down my cheek and his lips widen a little in a smile. It’s small and gone after a second, but my heart still skips a beat. He has a beautiful smile.

The kitchen door on the other side of the room opens and the pakhan comes in, his face somber. He says something in Russian and Mikhail curses.

“There was a fire in one of the warehouses. I have to go.” He kisses the top of my head and stands up. “I’ll call Denis to pick you up and take you home.”

“Message me so I know you are okay. Please.”

“I will.” The look he gives me is part surprise and part satisfaction, and then he’s gone.





*


It’s close to three in the morning when Mikhail comes back. I jump from the couch the moment I hear the door open and, clutching the blanket around me, rush to him. He’s covered in soot, black splotches all over his hands and face, but he looks unharmed.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I was worried.”

“Lena?”

“Asleep. We had pancakes for dinner again.” I sign and start unbuttoning his shirt. The sleeve is torn in one place, but when I inspect his upper arm, I don’t find any injury.

“The pants. Then the shower.”

He doesn’t complain about me ordering him around, just kisses me lightly on the lips and, leaving the ruined suit on the floor, heads toward the bathroom. I take his shirt and pants to the trash can, then go after him.

In the bathroom, I remove my clothes and get into the shower where Mikhail is already washing his hair. I take the soap from the shelf, lather my hands, and lift them to his face. He looks down at me for a second, then bends his head. There is a big black stain on his right cheek, so I start there. It comes off rather easily, and I move on to his forehead and then his neck. There is no soot on his chest, but I move my hands there anyway, stroking his skin in a round motion.

Mikhail takes a step forward and places his hands on the tiles on either side of my head, caging me between his body and the shower wall. I slide my hand lower and grip his hard cock, enjoying the way his breathing quickens.

“Not yet,” he says in my ear and, taking me by my hips, turns me around so I am facing the wall.

His hands move slowly down my stomach until they stop between my legs, and I feel his finger teasing at my entrance.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever set my eyes on,” he whispers and thrusts one finger inside me, then adds another, and I gasp silently. “And you, my little sunray, are as beautiful on the inside, as you are on the outside.”

When he curls his fingers inside of me, pressing the sensitive spot near my clit, a shudder rocks my whole body so hard that I have to press my forehead and palms against the wall to keep myself standing.

“Mine,” he says against my neck, winds his free arm around my midsection, and lifts me without removing his fingers from inside my pussy.

I am panting, not able to inhale enough air, as Mikhail carries me into his bedroom with my back pressed to his chest and my head thrown back onto his shoulder. It amazes me how he easily manages to carry my whole weight with only one arm, while his other hand is still buried inside of me, teasing me.

The moment he sets me down and removes his fingers, I turn and push him down onto the bed, then crawl over his huge body and sit down on his cock. It feels like home, and I come the second he fills me up, wishing so much that I could scream his name at that moment.