Disaster loomed in the distance, but the heat of his body washed away the coldness inside me. I used to despise his size and strength; now I leaned into it knowing he wouldn’t let me fall. Yet.
Ronan pressed his face against my neck with a low groan. “Inogda bol’no smotret’ na tebya.”
He wasn’t going to translate the statement for me, but he didn’t need to. I understood what he said. Sometimes it hurts to look at you. And now I knew it wasn’t only water running down my cheeks.
All along, this man had been on the other side of the Atlantic.
And maybe . . . just maybe, my soul always knew.
nefelibata
(n.) one who lives in the clouds of their own imagination
The sun shined, casting a bright sheen behind my closed eyes, and rolled me in the soft warmth of heaven. Though the soreness between my thighs was the embodiment of Satan’s harem itself.
I opened my eyes to find myself alone in D’yavol’s bed. I stared at the ceiling while the memory of yesterday returned with a vengeance.
I didn’t think Ronan noticed my mini-meltdown in the shower—or maybe he did, and that was why he took the initiative to wash me himself. My hair, my body . . . but not my conscience.
My mind worked backward, the memory hitting rewind from the moment I came, my head thrown back, beneath the spray of the shower. Each thrust had slid me up the shower wall, my thighs wrapped around his hips. Heavy breaths and Russian words. Stars on his shoulders. Stars in my eyes.
I’d dropped to my feet, spun around, and rose to my tiptoes. He slid inside me from behind. My forehead rolled against the wall, my fingers sliding down the stone. His hand on my throat; his lips at my ear. “Moya. Vse moya.” Mine. All mine. Inked fingers braced on the wall beside my own. Suds and skin and a raven called Nevermore. My chest held a brittle paper heart knowing, soon, this man would slip through my fingers like another lost Lenore . . .
I returned to the present, my arms spread on black sheets like a snow angel’s, before I was again sucked back to yesterday.
After the shower, I was unable to find my clothes, so I dug through Ronan’s closet and slipped on one of his T-shirts. It would be such a normal, domestic act if I didn’t feel the need to check the fabric for a bloodstain before donning it.
It was lunchtime, and all the sex had made me famished. I sat on the bed and filled my empty stomach with the food Yulia brought up while Ronan pulled on a pair of boxer briefs and answered his phone. Masochistically, I wondered if Nadia was on the other end of the line. And then I consoled myself with the fact it was probably just a henchman who Ronan was ordering to drown some poor soul in a toilet.
Ronan was still talking on the phone when his gaze found me sitting cross-legged on his bed stuffing my face. After moving toward me with a glint in his eyes, he stole a carrot from my plate and brought it to my mouth. I gave him a dry look. If he thought he’d Stockholm syndromed me so good I’d let him hand-feed me, he was crazier than I thought.
I bit his finger.
With a chuckle, he bit off the end of the carrot and walked to the window to continue his conversation. His form blocked out the light, the shadow he cast having wings like the inked devil on his back. But now his darkness felt warmer than the sun.
After finishing my meal, I grew restless waiting for Ronan to finish his phone call, so, naturally, I started pushing the buttons on the wall near the nightstand. A blind began to slide down the window. In my haste to make it stop and not show my immaturity when it came to buttons, I pushed them all. The lights flicked on, and so did blaring music. A cabinet in the wall opened to reveal a flat-screen TV. Then the chandelier spun like a disco ball, its teardrops jewels glittering on the walls.
That escalated quickly . . .
Contrite, I cast my gaze to Ronan while the lights sparkled romantically, the blinds were haphazardly closed, and jazz played from hidden speakers. I pulled my lip between my teeth to hold in my laughter and offered, “Whoops.”
Ronan’s serious expression, as if I’d just interrupted a very important board meeting, only amused me more. He returned the room to its quiet state, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“I had no idea you had such a romantic side.”
His lips turned up. “All that jazz came with the house.”
I laughed at the “jazz” double entendre. “I should have known. The chandelier button was dusty.” Leaning my head against the headrest, I said, “I hope I didn’t interrupt any of your plans to destroy the idea of world peace forever.” I squealed like a girl when he grabbed my ankle and yanked me down the bed.
“I think that was exactly your plan,” he countered, bracing his hands on either side of my head. “Or was I boring you?”
I vibrated beneath his closeness, his body heat finding its way under my skin. When I licked my lips in anticipation, his gaze followed the movement. Breathlessly, I nodded. Then his mouth touched mine so softly my chest ached. So softly, it wasn’t a kiss at all. It was all the words that could never be said. His lips left mine, the air so heavy and thick it put pressure on the backs of my eyes. To hide my reaction, I forced, “I hope one of those buttons didn’t launch a rocket to destroy the moon.”
A smile touched his lips as he pulled back to stand at the foot of the bed. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
“Without the moon, we might experience an ice age.”
“And you don’t wear pants, so we can’t have that.” He grabbed my ankle, nipped my instep, then sucked my big toe. I exhaled, bizarrely growing hot everywhere, and pushed his cheek away with my foot. He chuckled.
“Dresses are appropriate forms of clothing,” I returned.
“On you, I disagree.” He kissed and bit a path up my leg, and I moaned when he reached the inside of my thigh. My clit pulsed in anticipation, but what I wanted had nothing to do with his mouth between my legs—and not because of what he told me of his past; because time was limited with this man.
I grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his lips to mine, barely skimming but burning nonetheless.
“Does the bed rotate too?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” he returned with humor, then his voice turned raspy. “But it does rock.”
The rest of the day passed with sex and food and Russian sitcoms.
And it was easily my favorite happily-for-now yet.
I ate breakfast alone. Ronan must have left for Moscow before I even woke, and the lack of his presence intensified an uneasy feeling in my chest. Had I given him exactly what he wanted, so he now had no reservations about handing me over in return for my papa?
I chewed my lip and walked through the house in a daze, trying to find something to do—anything to distract my mind from its horrid musings. I stopped short at the sight of the quiet serving girl in the laundry room.
“Oh, you’re back.”
With a wild flare of uncertainty in her eyes, she dropped her head and focused on the laundry she was folding, her movements nervous. I noted she looked better than I’d ever seen her. She was usually so pale, so fragile, but today, a healthy glow warmed her skin. Days ago, Ronan told me her disappearance was “none of my business,” and I suddenly knew he was responsible for her change in appearance.