Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(29)

“If you don’t get inside me right this moment,”—I take a handful of his hair and squeeze—“I’m going to murder you, Roman.”

His hands slowly travel down my chest and ribcage until he reaches my waist. Lifting me, he

positions me above his cock, those devilish eyes never moving from mine, even for a second.

“Your wish is my command, Nina,” he says and thrusts inside me.

I moan and hear him groan at the same time. He’s too big but, dear God, it feels so good. I bury my nails into his shoulders as I spasm around him while he pounds into me. It’s madness and I scream, not giving a fuck if anyone hears us. Roman groans my name and, a moment later, comes inside me.

Perfection.

Roman’s hand traces patterns from the top of my neck and all the way down to my ass, then

backtracks upward. I’ve been lying sprawled over his chest for at least five minutes, but I can’t make myself move.

“Nina? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “But I’m not moving. I like it here.”

“I like having you here as well, malysh.”



*

I wake to the sound of a fast tapping noise coming somewhere above my head. I stretch a little and open my eyes to find myself lying on the sofa with a pillow under my head and a blanket covering me from neck to foot. The lights are off; the TV in front of me is on, showing a news channel, but the sound is muted. The tapping sound stops and, in the next moment I feel fingers combing through my hair. I tilt my head up and find Roman sitting at the end of the sofa next to my head. His hair is wet, and he has the laptop on his lap.

“You fell asleep on me earlier,” he says.

“What time is it?”

“Half past seven. I told Varya that we’ll have dinner here when you wake up.”

“Sounds good.” I stand up, clutching the blanket around me. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“All right. I’ll tell the kitchen to send the dinner up,” he says and returns to his typing.

I pivot and head toward my bedroom, feeling slightly awkward with the whole situation. We had sex. Where does that put us now? It’s not just a business arrangement anymore, is it? Should we ignore the fact that we had sex and pretend it never happened? I’m not sure I can do that because, to be honest, I don’t want to. We will have to talk about it. I might be a fan of a shove-problems-under-the-carpet approach, but I don’t think there is a rug large enough for it this time.

After my shower, I march back into the living room, intent on discussing the new situation with Roman, only to find him in his wheelchair, fully clothed, and putting on his wristwatch.

“What’s going on?”

“Something came up. Don’t wait up for me,” he says, and before I can object, he’s gone.

I stare at the door, then walk to the other side of the room where the big window overlooks the driveway. There are three cars parked in front, with four of the security guys waiting next to them. A couple of minutes later, Roman, Maxim, and Kostya come out of the house and get into the cars, followed by a few more security guys. And then, the cars leave.

Valentina brings the dinner sometime later, but I leave it on the dining table, hoping Roman will come back soon. He doesn’t, so around ten, I eat a few pieces of cold grilled fish and some salad. I put the leftovers into the fridge and watch some TV. Every fifteen minutes I get up and look out the window to see if the cars are back. Around midnight, I decide to call it a night.



*

The sound of car doors slamming and shouting wakes me. I jump out of bed and dash through the

suite to the big window. Two of the cars are back. Most of the doors are open, and the last few men are coming inside. Two of them support the third between them, practically dragging him up the stairs.

Shit. I run back into my room, pull a hoodie and sweatpants over my pajamas, and rush toward the big stairwell.

There is no one in the hall. I turn around and notice blood splattered on the white marble floor, creating a path toward the right hallway, in the direction of the kitchen. I follow the red spots along the corridor and find the kitchen doors wide open. Urgent voices and commotion blare from inside.

My blood runs cold at the sight of Varya hunched over Kostya. He is sprawled on his back on the big island in the middle of the kitchen, with Maxim holding a bloody rag to his side. One of the security guys comes running and places a box with medical supplies next to Kostya’s head and then switches places with Maxim, who goes to the sink and washes his hands with mad speed.

They are all shouting in Russian, and I don’t understand a thing they’re saying, but the sight speaks for itself. Something went wrong. And where the hell is Roman?

Two more security guys burst into the kitchen with a short bony man carrying a doctor’s bag. The doctor heads to the sink, and like Maxim, starts scrubbing his hands. They don sterile gloves and approach Kostya, who is pale, but conscious and panting. The doctor takes a look under the rag and prepares the needle and thread, while Maxim cleans the cut.

Footsteps approach from behind me, and the last of the security guys come into the kitchen with Roman wheeling in after them. A sigh of relief leaves my lungs when I see he’s unharmed, and I lunge toward him.

“Jesus, Roman!” I whisper, grab onto his face with both hands, and kiss him. It’s an angry kiss, but it still feels good. “What happened?”