Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(11)
Nina nods, pulls her dress up with one hand, and places the other on my shoulder. Then she bites her bottom lip, obviously confused on where to go from there. I lean in, grab her around the waist and hoist her up to deposit her across my thighs. She yelps, her arms going around my neck and her eyes widen.
“And now what?” I ask, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Now we wait for the maid to catch us cuddling.”
“But we are not doing that, are we? You are just sitting in my lap.” Reaching with my hand, I move the long black strand of hair that has fallen over her face, then holding her at the nape, lean in and place a kiss on her slender neck. With my other hand I find the slit of her dress and hear her sharp intake of breath when I start moving my fingers up her naked thigh.
A knock comes from the door.
“Enter!” I bark over Nina’s shoulder and then resume trailing kisses along her neck.
“Pakhan, Varya said to bring—” Valentina’s voice cuts in the middle of the sentence.
“Leave the tray in the kitchen and be gone.” My words are sharp, as if Valentina is interrupting something real. My body seems to think so.
The girl hurries to leave the food and then literally runs off, banging the door behind her.
As soon as Valentina is gone, Nina lets go of my neck, and hastily hops off my lap. Good. If she stayed there any longer she’d probably notice my hard dick straining against the material of my pants.
“So, that went well, I guess,” she says and passes her hands through her hair, only making it more tangled.
“A lovely performance indeed.”
“Well, I’d better go to bed now.” She starts toward the door of her room but stops midway. “Can I borrow a shirt or something?” She throws the question over her shoulder. “I don’t want to sleep in Oscar de la Renta.”
The idea of her in my clothes does something to my insides, and I imagine grabbing her and taking
her to my bed. I don’t like that at all. This is a business deal and nothing else. “I’ll bring you something. We can send someone to get your stuff tomorrow, leave your keys in the kitchen.”
After a quick shower, I put on a gray T-shirt Roman left on the door handle for me, get in the large four-poster bed and snuggle under the duvet. I checked the time on my phone before getting into bed.
It’s well after midnight, but I can’t sleep. Being in a strange house is just a part of the reason. A much larger part is sleeping a couple of dozen yards away. Just thinking about him is messing with my already fried brain.
Roman’s chest is fully covered with ink. I saw it when I unbuttoned his shirt, but there wasn’t enough time for me to pay much attention to the designs. I wish I did, because this need to reveal at least some of his secrets is eating me from the inside. The Russian Pakhan is an enigma, and the complete opposite of the straightforward funny guys—ones who can make me laugh—I’m usually attracted to. I like a carefree spirit, someone who is easy to talk to and even easier to leave—a man who won’t demand me to open up. Getting tangled up with the Pakhan any more than strictly necessary for this plan to work is not wise.
I close my eyes and the image of Roman gripping my thigh while his sinful lips trail a line of kisses down my neck fills my mind. As if on its own accord, my hand slides down my stomach and stops between my legs. I place a finger at my core, press lightly, and groan. No. I should not be pleasuring myself while thinking of a man who threatened to kill me. It’s so wrong. Quickly, I remove my hand, tuck both under the pillow, and try to ignore the ache between my legs. I am not doing this.
For hours I lay awake in bed, clutching the pillow with my fingers, waiting for my traitorous body to calm itself. It doesn’t. In fact, it only gets worse until I can’t take it anymore, so I finally succumb to my need and slide my hand back down between my legs. I come in a matter of seconds, with my face buried in the pillow and a name of a killer on my lips.
Chapter 4
My phone rings while I’m buttoning my shirt, showing my uncle’s name on the screen. The old boar normally likes to sleep till noon on Sundays. I know only one reason why he would be calling this early.
“What is it, Leonid?” I bark into the phone.
“I heard you brought a woman. Is she still in the house?”
“This is my house, so it doesn’t concern you.”
“It means she is. You never bring your sluts home,” he says, and my body goes rigid.
“If I hear you called her that again, in front of me or anyone else, I’m going to slit your throat. Is that clear?”
“What the hell has gotten into you, Roman?”
“Have I been clear, Leonid?”
There is silence on the other side of the line before he answers, “Yes.”
“Good.” I cut the line.
I hate that man, but I can’t risk throwing him out, no matter how much I want to. Leonid knows too much, and I need him here, where I can keep my eye on him the whole time.
I reach for the crutches leaning on the nightstand, place them on either side of me, and hoist myself up. Putting the crutches under my armpits, I take a deep breath and make the first few painfully-slow steps. My knee is usually stiff in the mornings, but it’s much better than a month ago. All those hours of physical therapy are finally paying off, but I’m still a long way away from getting rid of the damn wheelchair. I hate the bloody thing, but I still have days when the pain is too strong, and I can’t bear to even move my right leg.