Maybe it was unfair of me to approach her like this, but I never said I was a saint.
“You’re staring,pchelka,” I tease lightly, withholding a groan as I bask in her glory—the widow’s peak, the softly sloping brows, the button nose, and those full lips I want to devour.
She has the face of a model and—around me, at least—the timidity of a nun.
Talk about a distraction.
My teasing has her jerking to attention. A cool mask swallows the earlier surprise, and I find myself missing it. “Where’s your suit?”
I hear the accusation.
“I don’t live in a suit, Victoria.” I stride over to her, aware that the top half of mygiflaps open.
I could yank on my black belt to cover up, but why would I?
This belongs to her, after all.
As much as her beauty ismine.
“Is that a…?”
“Agi.” I grit my teeth when her gaze remains locked on myface, not dropping to my chest, to the planes of skin she’s never seen before. “For Jiu-Jitsu.”
Blyad.
She doesn’t react to the information, simply continues staring into my eyes.
Perhaps there is a compliment to be found in this mask she’s wearing like a shield.
She can’t help that I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for her to look at me this way and, in turn, for the ability to look at her like the woman she now is.
When I first met her, she was a child.
And I am no pedophile.
A boy reared on the streets, preyed upon by the predators in orphanages and the scum who sought to take advantage of my family’s poverty, would never sexualize a child.
It’s why I’ve grown comfortable being on the outskirts of her life. Ensuring her safety. Protecting her from afar.
Somewhere, somehow, she’s morphed from the bratty teenager I ferried around the city to the breathtaking woman who’s seeking me out tonight.
The fact that she’s willingly entered my lair changes everything…
And inthatdress no less.
As much as my lack of a suit is a declaration, I have to reason that her outfit is one too.
She’s always demure—aside from when she drives me crazy and goes to clubs—but this dress is the exact opposite.
The square neckline runs incredibly low. A little deeper and her nipples would be on display. The thinnest of straps keep the confection decent. Barely. The silk cups her waist in a way that makes my fingers crave to touch her, and it cuts off an inch above her knee.
Nonexistent strappy heels complete the look.
Nothing else adorns her.
Not a purse or a necklace.
Her hair sweeps freely over one shoulder, a tumble of curls that appear effortless.
