Page 90
I take one more step closer, and now there’s barely any space left between us. He still doesn’t move. I can feel his attention sharpen, the tension tighten like a wire being pulled taut.
“Every time I come home from work and you’ve been here stalking my apartment,” I continue, stepping even closer, “that’s what greets me. Your scent. All over my space.”
His mouth curves, but this time the smile is smaller. I reach out and take the bottle from his hand, letting my fingers drag deliberately against his. The contact is brief, but not meaningless.
His breath catches just slightly, but I hear it.
Good.
I tilt the bottle and glance at the label. “Expensive taste for a stalker.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “You say stalker like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is a bad thing.”
“Then why do you look so pleased?”
That earns him a look, but he only grins wider, like getting caught in my apartment without permission is somehow an achievement worth admiring.
I turn and walk toward the open kitchen, and I hear him follow behind me with that lazy, unhurried confidence he carries.
“So…” he says, his voice edged with smug amusement. “You know what I smell like, huh?”
Of course that’s the part he chooses to focus on. Not the fact that I know he sneaks into my apartment when I’m not here. Not the fact that I’ve apparently let that become normal enough to joke about. No, what matters to Maksim is that I notice him closely enough to know the exact scent he leaves behind.
I don’t answer. Instead, I set the bottle on the counter and reach for the opener. Behind me, he hops up onto one of the island stools and makes himself comfortable like he owns the place. When I glance over, his elbows are propped on the marble, his chin tipped slightly down, his eyes fixed on me with the kind of open attention most people would have the decency to disguise.
I uncork the wine, pour two generous glasses and slide one across the counter to him.
“So you really came here to watch me cook?” I ask before taking a sip of my own.
“Yup.” His smile turns genuine for a moment. “Hopefully it’s that creamy lemon garlic chicken your brother keeps bragging about. He says you make it better than anyone”
A low laugh leaves me as I pull out the cutting board and knife.
“Don’t believe anything Jamie says about me,” I say, shaking my head. “He has a habit of bragging about me.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Maksim says quietly, taking a slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine.
I break the eye contact first and focus on slicing the chicken breasts into thin strips, doing my best to ignore the weight of his stare. The silence stretches for a while, but silence around Maksim is never permanent.
“So,” he says eventually, “do you always cook for your secret hook-ups, or am I getting special treatment?”
I don’t look up. “You aren’t my hookup.”
“We’ve fucked twice now,” he replies flatly. “Not to mention the other extracurriculars—like when you pumped your load down my throat in your office, or the time you watched me fuck myself with that dildo you’re clearly jealous of.”
This time I do look at him.
The air between us shifts tighter, hotter, charged with filthy memory. My body reacts instantly, heat pooling low in my gut at the raw images he just painted.
“You really do have a way with words, spitfire.” I say, my tone drier than I feel as I start seasoning the chicken.
“Why did you invite me here, Tristan?” His voice is lower now, stripped of some of the teasing. I don’t have to look up to know he’s watching me more intently than before.
“You said you were bored,” I reply truthfully. “I was bored too, and I was about to make dinner. Inviting you over seemed like the simplest option before you started cursing me out for ignoring your texts, setting my car on fire, or damaging something else I’m emotionally attached to.”
He blinks at me, then raises a brow and leans farther onto the counter, studying me with that assessing look of his.
