Page 91
I always thought Sergei was more of a T-shirt kind of man, yet nothing suits him quite like a three-piece suit.
It clings to every hard line of his body, tailored to perfection, accentuating a presence that borders on overwhelming.
His broad shoulders stretch the fabric, his biceps flexing beneath the sleeves with every movement. It’s pure torture for us mere mortals.
He looks like a fucking sex god and it only makes me realise how different we are from each other.
How undeserving I am to even stand this close to him.
He takes the brush from my hands and slowly works it through my hair. His every movement is impossibly gentle, as if even the slightest tug might hurt me.
“You’ll get sick.” He murmurs, his entire focus on my golden strands. “What kind of man would I be if I let my girl get sick?”
“I’m not your girl.” I correct him.
“These hickeys say otherwise.” He nods toward my chest, where purple bruises are undoubtedly beginning to bloom from his handiwork.
When his fingers slide through my hair easily, he looks up, a barely discernible smile plastered on his face as he eyes my reflection up and down.
“Stop looking at me like that.” I turn around just as he leans forward.
“Like what?” he murmurs, his lips hovering a breath away from mine.
“Like you want to eat me alive.”
“Oh! But I do.” His eyes devour every inch of me, and all I can think about is closing the distance between us and kissing the living daylights out of him. “My control slips a little more every time you run that smart mouth.”
“You—”
“Yes, I’m an arsehole, baby. Save your breath.” The corner of his lips tips up. He gently cups my face and pulls me closer to his body, leaving a lingering kiss on my forehead.
“Not yet.” He whispers, almost to himself, forcing himself to take a step back. “Let’s find you something warm to wear.” He turns and heads straight for my wardrobe.
“Excuse me?”
“By all means, princess, wear whatever you want.” He raises his hands in mock surrender as he rummages through the tiny section of my wardrobe. “But I’m not letting you get sick on my watch.”
“Or maybe you’re just so paranoid you can’t handle a little skin on display.”
He turns around, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “You see my dick?” He gestures toward himself. “It’s been fucking hard since I walked into your flat. The second your scent hit me.”
He pulls out a long brown coat, gives it a skeptical look, then arches a brow at me.
When I shake my head, he lets out a quiet sigh and hangs it back up, resuming his search.
“This”—he gestures to himself again—“is me showing restraint.” His gaze flicks to mine. “Trust me, it has nothing to do with a little skin on display.”
He pulls out another coat. “You could be wrapped from your neck to your ankles, and I’d still be standing here trying not to lose my mind.” He barely glances at my reaction before reaching for another coat, then another, until I’ve shaken my head at every single one.
“And let’s not forget, I am a gentleman.”
I snort. “A gentleman doesn’t break into a girl’s flat.”
“I didn’t break in.” He corrects innocently. “I let myself in.”
“That’s worse.” “Debatable.”
I laugh. “You have a key to my place.” “And yet I knocked.”
