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Clutching the sheet to her chest, she sits up. “What time is it?”
“Don’t worry about the time. You needed your rest.” I pick up the tray and carry it to the bed. “Tima made omelets.”
“That smells good,” she says with a weak smile.
“You must be starving.” Heat shades my voice as I add, “After last night.”
A flush works its way over her cheeks. She’s not shy about sex or her body. What bothers her is her surrender. I know my kiska well enough to understand that she feels like she’s lost a battle. Well, too bad. Our relationship isn’t a war she should be fighting.
Balancing the tray on one hand, I put a plate and mug on the nightstand on her side. She watches me with her lip caught between her teeth, her waves deliciously untamed. I’ve always found a woman who’s just woken up sexy. There’s something alluring about that natural beauty before it’s been touched by brushes and makeup, and there’s no woman sexier or more alluring than my Katyusha, even when she’s scrunching the sheet in her small fist as if her honor depends on it. We finally took ten steps forward last night. I’m not going to let her hide from me now and take us five steps back.
Hooking a finger into the sheet between the curves of her breasts, I tug gently. She holds on, clenching her fingers tighter. I don’t let her off the hook. This isn’t a war. There’s nothing to lose. I’m not stripping her of her dignity or pride. I simply want things between us the way they used to be. I want her to be comfortable with her nakedness around me, like she’d been the morning after the very first time I’d claimed her.
After another beat of me tugging and her pulling, she lets go. The fabric slides over her breasts and pools around her waist, unveiling her like a stunning life portrait. Unabashedly, I stare at her curves and the pert pink nipples that top them like cherries. My cock comes to life, tenting my pajama bottoms and showing her in no uncertain terms what she does to me.
Her gaze moves south. She only graces my erection with her attention for a second before she focuses on my face.
My smile is like a door hanging on one hinge—crooked and unstable. I have a good mind to forget about food and have her for breakfast, but in the light of day, she’s skittish. The moon was kind. It let us hide in the shadows and commit sins we can’t face under the judgment of the sun. That’s all right. I have patience, a lifetime of it where she’s concerned.
“The food is getting cold,” I say, breaking the tension by walking to my side and getting in under the covers next to her. I move carefully, making sure I don’t topple the tray, and when I’m settled with my back against the headboard, I balance the tray on my lap.
She gingerly reaches for the plate on her nightstand. Once she’s installed herself comfortably, I hand her a fork.
“Thank you,” she says, watching me from under her lashes.
I choose a safe topic to keep the conversation light. “I told Tima you like omelets.”
She takes a bite and hums her approval as she chews. The simple fact that she’s enjoying the food warms my chest.
“Tima said he’s cooking vegetarian portions for me,” she says. “You don’t have to cater to me. I’m used to adapting.”
“You’re my guest, Katyusha.”
Her hand stills midway in the air, the fork hovering in front of her mouth. Too late, I realize my mistake. That was a bad choice of words.
Instead of commenting, she takes another bite, brushing the ugliness aside as if pretending it’s not there will make it vanish.
Eager to maintain a pleasant mood, I say, “I’d like to take you sightseeing today.”
She looks at me quickly. “Really?”
Her enthusiasm makes me grin. “I promised to show you St. Petersburg, didn’t I?”
Her slender throat bobs as she swallows. “What about safety?”
Brushing a curl behind her ear, I say, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the security.”
As I dig into my omelet, I make a mental note to tell Dimitri to plan a route and scout the roads in advance. I’ll have to station men on every corner and have snipers on the roofs. It’ll be a mission to organize, but nothing is too much effort for her.
“Thank you,” she says with a small frown, as if she’s doubting my motive.
I can’t resist kissing her cheek. “You’re welcome.”
The fact that she doesn’t flinch or pull away further warms my heart.
Glancing at me, she asks after another forkful of omelet, “Will you show me where you grew up?”
The request catches me off guard. I expected her to ask about the Peterhof Palace or the Fabergé Museum, the usual tourist sights. “Why do you want to see that?” The prospect of going there tightens my stomach, not that there’s anything left to visit.
