Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(47)

“Of course, I did.”

I choke on the piece of bread I just put in my mouth and reach for the water. “You cannot tell me that kind of shit during breakfast, Roman.”

“You asked. And he tried to kill me first.”

“So that makes it ok?”

“He was planning round number two. Does that fact make it more bearable for you?”

“I guess.” I think about Leonid trying to kill Roman again, and conclude that I would probably kill him myself in that case. “Yes. Nobody tries to kill my husband and gets away with it. You made the right choice.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“I do not approve of killing people. I just . . . I can live with it in this case.”

“You have really strange views, Nina.”

“Since I’m living in your strange world, I guess it’s fitting.” I look at the clock and jump up from the chair. “We’re going to be late for that wedding.”

“What are you wearing?”

I smile mischievously, take a fistful of his shirt, and pull him toward me. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

I kiss him and start to pull back, but he grabs me around my waist and drags me into his arms.

“If you play with fire, my little flower,” he says in my ear while his hands hook around the waistband of my jeans and start pulling them down, “you may get burned.”

“We will be late.”

“Do you think I care?”

Nope. And I don’t either. “How durable are those chairs?”

“Let’s find out.”

While he takes off his sweatpants, I remove the jeans and my underwear, and climb onto his lap.

My legs are too short and dangle in the air on either side. Even when I stretch, I can’t touch the ground with my toes. “I don’t think this will work, Roman.”

He looks down, failing to stifle his laugh. “Jesus, Nina. You are so tiny.”

“Should we move to the bed?”

Roman tilts his head to the side, and leaning back in the chair, he grabs my waist while his lips curl in a smug smile. “Nope.”

My eyes widen as he lifts me up and positions me above his hard cock then lowers me onto it. I gasp and clutch his shoulders, loving the way he fills me gradually. A moan escapes me when I feel him fully buried inside. Roman’s hands move lower, beneath my thighs, and he lifts me up then slides me down, impaling me again and again as I pant and hold tightly onto him. I’m not sure what turns me on more: the way his cock slides in and out of me, or the ease with which he handles my body as if I weigh nothing at all. He slams into me one last time and I come, hearing him groan, as his seed fills me.

“Everything okay?” he wraps his arms around me and presses me into his chest.

“Yeah.” I bury my nose into his neck, inhaling his scent. “I want random chairs to be put in every room. That bench-press machine you have can go.”

“You weigh half the weight I usually lift, malysh.”

“They say it’s more effective to work with less weight, but more often.”

“Do they?” His hands caress my back, gliding downward until they reach my ass. “I like that new workout plan. A lot,” he says and squeezes my butt cheeks.



*

The wedding is extremely boring. Tons of guests are milling around with glasses in their hands, chatting and fake smiling. I don’t know a single person here, so I spend most of the time people watching and commenting on the outfits to Roman. He always finds my babbling amusing. However, a few minutes ago he got stuck in a conversation about politics with some men, and I decide to leave him to it and go to sit at one of the tables.

I don’t have a problem with sitting alone, but it seems like some people think I do, because a couple of women sit with me and drag me into a tactless conversation about who bought what for the newlyweds.

“We couldn’t come with anything meaningless, you know,” a pretty blonde with pumped lips

explains. “I’m sure they will enjoy the weekend at the spa. It’s a highly exclusive place. Please don’t ask how much we paid for the tickets; the amount was atrocious.”

“They will love it.” I smile.

“And what did you get them, dear?”

“An extremely ugly vase,” I say. “My husband insisted on it.”

“Oh, well, maybe your tastes differ. And which one is your husband?”

I look over to the group of men in the middle of the hall and smile. “The sexiest one in the room,” I declare.

“You are biased.” The other one, with a short red dress and red hair, laughs.

“Nope. It’s a fact.” I shrug.

They both turn to look at the mass of people like they are trying to guess which one would that be.

“The one in a brown suit, yes? The one with the glasses?”

I follow her gaze and see a shortish guy who’s rather handsome, and has an accountant feel around him. I smile widely. This will be fun.

“Nope. Try again.”

Next, she points out a man in a tuxedo. He’s kind of cute and has longish hair, but is way too thin.

However, before I have the opportunity to answer, the blonde interferes.

“Oh my God, Sandra, is that Roman Petrov?” she exclaims and grabs for the redhead’s forearm.