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He arches a brow. “What?”
“Well, I mean—I probably should have asked this earlier.” It was hard to think straight with his full attention on me. The same reason it’s hard to formulate the words now. “You weren’t at the restaurant for me. You aren’t Sergey. So, why were you there?”
He lowers his brow. It’s like watching a shield shift into place. The way his eyes go flat and his jaw flexes. Even his fingers tense on my hip.
“For dinner,” he answers flatly.
“Alone?” I immediately shake my head. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter. I just don’t understand how this is happening.”
“And what do you think is happening?” he asks.
A one-night stand with the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.
I can’t bring myself to say the words, though.
“I don’t… I guess I just mean… I’m glad you were at the restaurant tonight.”
Yakov is still watching me, that same faraway look in his eyes. Then he’s moving towards me.
Maybe it’s time to reconsider throwing myself from the car because I can’t kiss this man. I haven’t kissed a man in… Lord, I don’t even know how long. So I can’t kiss him. Not now! Not when I’m out of practice and probably have beef breath.
Abort mission. Retreat. Abandon ship.
Except Yakov doesn’t give me time to do any of that. He hooks his finger behind my ear, angles my chin with his thumb, and presses his lips to mine.
And suddenly, I need to kiss him. It’s the only thing I can do. The only thing I want.
Yakov’s hand slides from my hip to my waist and I angle closer to him. My knee slips over his thigh. One shift and I could straddle him. I’m not the kind of woman that straddles men in the backs of cars, but I could be.
For Yakov. If he wanted.
He sucks on my lower lip and I moan. I actually moan.
I press closer. Heat soaks through his shirt. I stroke my hand over his chest, his stomach. I hesitate, waiting for him to give me a sign either way. Should I go lower? I want to know if he’s feeling the same kind of ache that I am. I want to feel it for myself.
The world has narrowed to this moment. Just me and Yakov. No one else.
Then the car jolts slightly.
It’s a light tap of the brakes. But it’s enough.
I jerk back with a yelp, my entire body flaming with a mix of desire and embarrassment. I check the rearview mirror, but the driver has his eyes on the road. Right now.
Yakov and I aren’t alone. We haven’t been alone this entire time.
How much did he see? How much did he hear?
“Don’t worry, solnyshka,” Yakov says. His lips are against the shell of my ear now. His breath warms my skin. “He’s seen much worse.”
If he’s trying to make me feel better, he should keep trying.
The rest of the ride is silent. I’m a ball of anxiety and restless energy, but Yakov is perfectly at ease. I try not to think about how often he must do stuff like this to be so comfortable with it.
That’s easy enough to do when the car pulls into what has to be a half-mile long driveway, at least, and I see the mansion on the hill.
“What is that?” I gape. The windows glow with warm light—all three storeys of them.
“Most people call it a house.”
