Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(48)

“Your choice, myshka.”

“Okay.” I nod him on.

He fills the wine glass only a quarter of the way. When he enters the living room area, he hands it to me. “I didn’t want to take out the bottle until Katya left,” he says as he sinks in the white chair across from the couch. “She would’ve asked for some.”

“And you would’ve said no?” I guess.

He nods, more morose and pensive as he stares at the carpet. “It’s one thing to say no when only I’m here, and it’s another to do it in front of someone else.”

I think I can understand that. She would’ve wanted to be treated like me, not like a kid since she’s sixteen, a teenager. Hardly a child.

I try not to stare too hard at him while we talk. But he’s still in a towel. It’s very hard not to notice it. I set my half-eaten plate down, appetite gone thanks to the nervous flutters. I’ll stick with the wine. “So you have four brothers,” I throw it out there.

“I do,” he says without elaborating. He smiles into his next sip of wine, knowing I’ll have to ask further.

I’m glad my horrible small talk efforts can entertain him. “I’ve met Timo and Luka, but where are the other two?”

“Madrid, until the end of the month, then they’ll be in…” His brows furrow, and he rubs his eyes, less reddened than before. “Valencia or Sevilla, I can’t remember.”

“They’re touring?” I guess.

“Noctis,” he says with a weak smile. “They’re on the European tour for another year and a half; then the show will go to Japan for a full twelve months.”

“Wow…” That’s a lot of traveling and separation from the rest of his family. I can see why Katya wants to join it—if that’s the only way she can see her mom and dad. I don’t want to pry, but so many questions sprout. I must wear them on my face since he speaks first.

“I haven’t seen Peter and Sergei in six years.” He pushes back the longer strands of his hair, still damp from his shower. Rarely does his gaze drift from mine, but in recollection of the past, he has a thousand-yard stare. “We talk on the phone, but it’s not the same as being here.”

“Are they young…like Katya?”

He shakes his head. “No. Peter is twenty-four, two years younger than me, and Sergei will be twenty-eight in July, two years older.”

I want to ask what happened—how they ended up split apart—but I’m not sure he’ll tell me. I’m not even sure it’s something he shares often. Just by his dark, faraway expression, I can tell it brings him to a place he’s not fond of going.

I sip my wine with rusted joints. Since I unearthed a sore subject, I decide to lighten the mood. I take the plunge. “Don’t tell me you sleep in the nude.” I nod to his towel, my lame attempt at a joke. I put the rim of the glass to my lips, gulping a sizable amount.

His eyes smile. “It’s much more comfortable.”

What? I choke on the liquid, coughing hoarsely.

He rises from his chair, as if ready to give me mouth-to-mouth. I hold up a hand, and he pauses in the middle of the floor.

“Thora?”

After another couple of dry coughs and a sip, I find my voice. “It went down the wrong…pipe or whatever it’s called.” I wince. I will never be a good smooth talker. It’s hard to even look at his face right now. He admitted to sleeping naked, even in jest. And he’s in a towel. Towering again. We’re also drinking wine.

Like old friends.

Nikolai returns to his seat, his eyes twinkling in amusement when I meet them.

“It’s not funny,” I say.

“It depends which part you’re referring to.” He rests his arm on the back of the chair, stretching, lounging. It’s a nice view.

I decide to jump topics again. New one. “How was the show tonight?”

“Fair,” he says. “But that’s how it’ll be until the aerial silk act returns.” He watches me take another gulp. “Careful, my demon.”

Do not choke. His comment almost made me, but I channel whatever poise I have and swallow the wine without falter. My entire body heats, not just from the alcohol.

Nikolai leans back into the chair, and the towel shifts, exposing more thigh, closer to something else. What if he’s called the God of Russia because of the size of his cock? The curious parts of me want to know. The sensible parts do not.

“How was your work?” he asks. A normal question, but the hairs on my arms rise.

“Fair,” I say, not mentioning the drunken guys, urging me to split my legs apart.

His gunmetal eyes seem to darken, and he rubs his strong jaw. He has to be imagining what “fair” entails at Phantom. Neither of us surfaces the unspoken words. It strains the air.

“Are you normally so bold?” he asks.

I try my shot at sarcasm. “You mean bold enough to sit in a living room in nothing but a towel?” I continue without thinking about my words. “It’s natural, yeah. I do it all the time.” I’m so lame.

He breaks into a fraction of a smile. “I mean you coming to Vegas on your own. Auditioning, staying even though you didn’t make it.” He knows I would’ve stayed whether or not he offered to train me. Maybe that’s the bold part—striving for something without a break, familiar face, or any help.