I hold out one hand anyway, the other on my hip, my bravest stance.
“Your shirt,” I say.
He dared me, after all.
Chapter Ten
Kostya
When the hottest girl you’ve ever seen is standing in front of you, wearing short pajama shorts and demanding your shirt, there’s only one option.
You give the girl your shirt.
“No chickens,” Hazel says. “Your shirt.”
I think she’s laughing at me, but I reach behind my head and tug my undershirt off anyway, then deposit it in her outstretched hand, the soft white cotton crumpling. Her hand makes a fist around it.
Then she looks at me, her eyes traveling up from the waistband of my jeans. It takes a split second, but I can practically feel the burning trails that her gaze leaves behind.
It’s been a long time since a woman saw me shirtless, and I cross my arms over my chest, hoping the half-dark hides some of the scars.
“Well, zloyushka?” I ask. “Feeling some chickens now?”
I know that’s not quite the English phrase, but I’m too fucking distracted to remember idioms.
“It’s chickening out,” she says, the teasing look back in her eyes. “And I’m not.”
She tosses my shirt on the stone wall, next to the lighter, and then turns her back to me.
I’m not surprised, but I’m disappointed. My cock twitches anyway, half-hard no matter how much I try to keep it down.
Hazel whips her shirt off, and suddenly she’s half-naked on the palace roof, her black hair swishing over her shoulder blades. She’s got those perfect dimples in her lower back, right above her shorts, and despite myself I go rock hard just looking at them.
I clench my fingers into my arms. I swear, it looks like those indents were put there so I could grab her by the hips and sink my thumbs into them, and it’s all I can think about.
My hands on her skin, pulling her toward me. The gasp she’d make, the way the curve of her ass would rub against me.
I grind my teeth together, but I can’t stop staring.
She tosses her shirt onto the stone wall, and as she does, I can just barely see the outer curve of one breast, and I clench my teeth even harder. As she grabs my shirt, she glances over her shoulder at me for one instant, as if to say I told you I’d do it.
Then she slides my shirt over her head, and I exhale. She sweeps her hair and and turns around, a triumphant look in her eyes, and I’m just praying she doesn’t look down and see Mount Kostya practically exploding out of my jeans.
“Told you,” she said.
My shirt is swimming on her, the v-neck coming almost down to her sternum, the slight curve of her cleavage visible in the moonlight.
That’s not why I’m staring, though. I’m staring because it’s a thin white shirt and her nipples are very, very prominently staring right back. She catches me, looks down, makes a face, and crosses her arms.
“It’s cold out here,” she says, but she won’t look me in the eye.
“I don’t even have a shirt,” I say.
“Whose fault is that?” she asks, tilting her head to one side.
“Yours,” I say. “You did demand the shirt off my back, zloyushka.”
She grabs the t-shirt and lighter from the stone wall and dangles the shirt in front of her, looking at it one last time.
“Sorry, Courtney,” she says. I assume Courtney is the friend who gave her the shirt.
Hazel flicks the lighter underneath the shirt and holds the flame to the hem. She holds it there for a long time, waiting for it to catch, glancing up at me every couple of seconds.
At last, it does, and she pulls the lighter away. Immediately, the shirt stops burning, the hem barely worse than scorched.
“Shit,” she mutters.
“Remind me not to take you on a wilderness mission,” I say. “We’d starve, then freeze to death.”
She snorts.
“Were you thinking of doing that?” she says, flicking the lighter again.
In the tower behind me, I hear a thump as a heavy door shuts. Hazel freezes, her eyes going wide.
“Oh fuck,” she says, not moving.
I point at the spot where there’s a corner in the opposite wall. Behind it’s a notch, black with shadows. She looks at it and then back at me.
“Your shirt,” she whispers.
The footsteps in the tower get closer, and even though I’m beyond tempted to tell her that I need my shirt back, now, I have a little mercy.
“It’s under control,” I whisper.
“Won’t it look worse if I’m hiding?” she whispers.
“Only if you’re found,” I whisper back.
Hazel scampers over, tosses me one last glance, then disappears. I turn toward the stone wall and look out over the ocean, breathing the cool, salty air deeply, pretending that I’m just up here to clear my head.
Hopefully whoever’s coming won’t notice my massive, aching erection.
Twelve times three is thirty-six, I think. Twelve times four is forty-eight, twelve times five is sixty —
The heavy wooden door opens and a palace guard comes out. The moment he sees me, he snaps to attention and bows his head slightly.
“Your majesty,” he says.
“At ease,” I say, the words almost automatic.
He doesn’t relax.
“I heard voices and thought it best to investigate,” he says.
“It’s only me,” I say. “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk.”
He nods again, brusquely. Then he pauses and sniffs the air slightly, his brow furrowing. It’s obvious he’s about to say something he doesn’t want to say.
“I’m obligated to tell you that these ramparts are off-limits for safety reasons,” he says stiffly.
I nod once.
“I’m being very careful,” I say.
“Have a good night, your majesty,” he says, then nods and disappears.
I listen to his footsteps fade down the tower stairs, then walk to the spot where Hazel’s hidden in the shadows.
She’s sitting with her back against the wall, elbows propped on her knees.
“Coast is clear?” she asks, her voice low.
I offer her my hand, and she takes it. I pull her to her feet so that she’s standing just a little too close to me, just close enough that I can smell her, a combination of sweet floral shampoo and the bite of pot smoke.
“I should go,” she whispers, but she doesn’t try to remove her hand from mine. The air between us feels like it’s sparking, charged with static, and it’s all I can do not to press her against the stone wall and fit my fingers to the dimples in her back.
I’m hard again. The multiplication tables barely helped, and we’re so close that it’s a miracle if she can’t tell. I should let her go and tell her to go back to her bedroom, forget any of this ever happened.
Instead I ask, “How much of Velinsk have you seen?”
Hazel blinks.
“Most of it, I think,” she says. “It isn’t very big.”
I’m close enough to see the shape of every freckle, even though here in the shadows it’s nearly dark.
“Do you want to see the real Velinsk?” I ask. “The parts the palace tour guide doesn’t show visitors?”