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Our food arrives then, and Lev smiles up at the old man who keeps talking in Italian. A plate of gnocchi topped with red sauce is placed in front of each of us, and a moment later, he’s gone.
It looks delicious and smells even better. I haven’t eaten all day, and even given the uncomfortable situation, I’m starving.
When he leaves, I look up to find Lev’s eyes still on me. “Do you speak Italian too?”
“Too?”
“I heard you talking with your friend—”
“He’s not my friend,” he cuts me off, his expression hardening. “I was born in Moscow. Lived in the States most of my life, though and no, I don’t speak Italian, but I do understand some. Giacomo was saying that he finds you beautiful and to enjoy our meal.” His expression softens again, and he tries for a smile. “Lecture over, Kat. Now to the business of why I returned your scarf.”
“Because you wanted to see me again.” Am I stupid that the thought makes me feel warm inside? Makes me feel good?
He puts a forkful of gnocchi into his mouth and smiles wide. His expression and the little bit of red sauce on the corner of his mouth make me smile, too.
4
Lev
A soft glow blooms across Katerina’s cheeks as the evening wears on, and I can’t tell if it’s the wine, the candlelight, or me. She’s loosening up, telling me bits and pieces about her life. Her friends. Her living situation. Her work. These are details I wouldn’t typically care to know about anyone else, but with her, I’ve barely scratched the surface.
I want to know about her scars. Her pain. Every tear she’s ever shed and every secret that might pour from those lips. And worse yet, I want to know what she’d look like coming around my cock. Does she have freckles everywhere? Is her entire body as soft as her hands?
Christ. It’s been far too long since I’ve felt the warmth of a woman in my bed. This isn’t the one I should break that dry spell with because I’m already in too deep. But I can’t stop staring at her. Soaking her in. Inhaling her scent every time she moves and leans a little closer.
Before I realize it, Giacomo is asking if there’s anything else I need before he sends the staff home for the night. A glance around the restaurant proves that we’ve been here for hours. All the other guests have gone, and I failed to notice.
I thank Giacomo and give him an extra tip for his service before pulling out Kat’s chair and helping her into her coat. She looks a little crestfallen that the evening is coming to an end, and I’m tempted to tell her that it’s not. But as I walk her to the car and open her door, I know that taking her home is the right thing to do. I did what I came to do. I returned her scarf, and I made sure she was safe. There can’t be anything more to it than that. But when I sink into the driver’s seat and glance over at her, she smiles at me in challenge.
She hasn’t buckled her seat belt, and we’re playing a dangerous game. I lean into her again, dragging the belt across her thighs and tucking it into place. She shivers when my fingers brush against her arm, and I make the fatal mistake of glancing up at her. Her eyes are the softest shade of green I’ve ever seen. They seem to change with the light, and right now the deep ring of blue around the edges is vibrating with a want she can’t deny.
I’m not thinking clearly when my thumb grazes over her lips. It’s second nature to want to experience her this way. Kat sucks in a breath. Our eyes lock, and for a minute, all of my problems cease to exist. She grabs me again, like she did last night, and this time, I don’t fight her. My mouth crashes into hers as my fingers fall to the beating pulse in her throat. Katerina arches into me, dragging her fingers through my hair as she moans into my mouth. She’s a goddamn wildfire, and I can’t put her out.
“Katya,” I murmur against her lips. “You are so much fucking trouble for me.”
She blinks and pulls away, just enough to look up at me. “Katya?”
I smooth her hair back into place and sigh. I’m revealing too much of myself. Getting too familiar with her. I should lie, but I would demand honesty of her, so I can only give her the same. “It is another way of saying your name in Russian. Like a nickname.”
“Katya,” she repeats. “Will you say it again with your accent?”
She snares her lip between her teeth, and I bite back a groan as I consider her doing the same when I sink inside her. When I finally manage to speak again, my voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it.
