Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(28)

“It’s rather hard to scratch a diamond.”

Nina looks at me, blinks, then looks down at the ring like it’s going to bite her. “This thing is real?”

“Of course, it’s real.”



“Shit!” She flattens her hand and stares disbelievingly at the two-carat princess-cut diamond. Her mouth opens and closes without words. Then she covers the ring protectively with her other hand and leans toward me. “Can I swap it with one that has glass instead?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“You are not wearing a glass ring. End of discussion.”

She scrunches her nose and mumbles something that sounds like “add devil’s horns,” but I

probably misheard because it doesn’t make any sense.

“Let’s go home,” I say and reluctantly let go of her hand. “We can watch a movie.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“I’m done for today. You?”

“My pimp is going to kill me. I’m already behind, but a movie sounds nice.”




After we get back, I take a quick shower, change into leggings and an oversized T-shirt, and head to the kitchen to prepare popcorn. Roman apparently loves orange juice, he drinks liters of it, so I squeeze a few oranges for him and take it to the living room.

He is already there, sitting with his arms over the back of the sofa, his right leg stretched out in front of him with the heel propped on the table.

“You look strange in casual clothes.” I place the bowl and the juice on the table, and nod toward his sweats and T-shirt.

“Oh? How so?”

“I don’t know. Less pakhan-ish, I guess.” I shrug and drop down on the sofa next to him “What are we watching?”

“I don’t care. Move over.”

I move to the corner, and Roman lies down on the sofa, places his head in my lap, and closes his eyes.

“Does your leg hurt?”

“Yes,” he says, but there is a slight delay in his reply.

“Are you lying?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. His eyes are still closed, but the corners of his mouth lift a bit.

“Oh yes, you are lying.” I bend down slightly. “You just want me to pet you.”

He opens his eyes and reaches up to tuck one of the strands that escaped my ponytail behind my ear. “Yes,” he says and closes his eyes again.

I take a deep breath, trying to control my racing heartbeat, and then bury my fingers in his hair. We stay like that, him lying on my lap and me petting him, in front of a turned-off TV until a phone ringing somewhere in Roman’s room breaks the silence.

“Shit,” Roman groans and sits up.

“I’ll get it.” I stand and hurry into his room.

When I come back, Roman is looking at me with strange intensity, but I shrug it off as one of the many strange looks he’s been giving me lately, and offer him the phone. He reaches for it, but instead of taking it, he closes his hand over my forearm and pulls me toward him. The phone is still ringing, but he doesn’t let go of my forearm, drawing me between his legs. His other hand reaches up and rests at the side of my face, his thumb caressing my cheek.

“Roman?” I ask in a small voice, “What are you doing?”

“Answering the phone.”

“It stopped ringing.”

“I know.” His hand slides down my forearm and pries the phone from my fingers.

“Roman?”

“Yes, malysh?” He throws the phone to the side, and it slides along the polished floor all the way to the bookshelf.

My breathing quickens as I raise my arms and wrap them around his neck, then lean into him so that our lips are only millimeters apart. He doesn’t take his eyes from mine, and the way he’s looking at me does strange things to my insides.

“Are you trying to kiss me, Roman?” I whisper into his lips.

“I might be,” he says.

“There is no one around to see us.”

“Exactly,” he whispers and touches his lips to mine.

He goes slowly at first, like he’s savoring me, but then his arms close around my back and he leans back onto the cushions, taking me with him. The way this man kisses should be ruled as hazardous to mental health, and prohibited. It feels like a hurricane is sweeping me off my feet, scrambling both my body and mind. I reach down with my hand, grab a fistful of his T-shirt and start tugging it upward.

Roman breaks the kiss and removes his shirt at the same time I drop mine on the floor. While he’s removing his sweats, I unclasp my bra and get rid of my leggings and underwear, and then climb onto his lap. His hand comes to the back of my neck, and he crashes his mouth to mine again.

I can’t stop touching him, his chest, his face, his cock which is already fully erect. Roman slides his hand between our bodies and I feel his fingers start teasing my clit.

“So wet,” he whispers in my ear and thrusts one finger inside of me.

I almost come on his hand right then and there, and I probably would have if he didn’t remove his finger, making me growl in frustration. It isn’t about his finger, though. It’s about him. Roman Petrov, the man who will be my doom. Call it a premonition or an instinct—doesn’t matter. I know he will destroy me because one look from Roman turns me on stronger than any other man before him has done with his cock.