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My heart hums and I’m breathless. I surge up claiming his mouth, melting into him as I pour all the love I have into a kiss. The admission letter floats to the ground, and I run my fingers into his hair tugging him toward me. I open my mouth and his tongue delves in, sweeping.
My hands find the scratch of his stubble and I revel in the texture, a rough shell, but inside a man with heart.
Strong arms lift me, and I wrap my legs around him, his hands supporting my thighs. I break the kiss staring at him. “I love you,” I whisper.
His eyes widen before he crashes his mouth back into mine. “Do you even know how much you mean to me?” He mumbles into my mouth between kisses and I whimper at the way he asks. So formal, matter of fact, like it isn’t even a question at all.
The snow falling hard catches my attention, it sticks to the window in cold bunches, so different from the heat consuming me. Luka moves us back to his bedroom, the hallway longer than it ever was before.
The soft light from the lamp next to his dresser shines, casting a shadow of the large brown leather chair against the wall. The soft glow from the city’s lights illuminates the room and the side of his face, the faint outlines of bruising still marking him. I reach to cup the side of his face, as he sets me on the bed. A plush luxe blanket sits at the foot of his made bed and he moves down, pulling up the cozy fabric around us. I lean into him.
“Tell me what you want,” he demands.
“You Luka. Only you.”
“Think you’ll ever change your mind?” His thumb pulls at my lower lip.
“Nyet,” I try to say, and he smiles at my horrible accent.
“Look at me, Kate.” I focus on him. My heart is hammering, fire blazing through my body. Each thump of my heart screams forever.
“Malyshka, moya zhena,” he murmurs. I shudder, tilting my lips to meet his, our love coming together.
* * *
“I wantyou to move your stuff in here, with me.” Luka’s voice is muffled in half of a pillow.
I smirk, “Asking me to move in with you?” I joke, he lets out a laugh, and I close my eyes relishing this moment with him.
“No,” he says, tone going serious. “I want you in my bed every night.”
“Are you going to tell me whatmalyshkameans?” The recent memory of him saying it playing in my mind.
“It is a term of endearment in Russian, means baby.”
“Andmoya zhena?” I ask, butchering the pronunciation. He freezes, rolling to stare at the ceiling. A sigh escapes him.
“My wife.” My head snaps to his and I sit up the sheets falling into a pool around me. I open my mouth to ask something, but a finger comes to my lips. Luka’s lips roll in and out as he holds his finger there. “Be my wife,” he says. It’s a plea.
“Luka—”
He shakes his head. “Please, be my wife. You are it for me, Kate. Stand by my side.”
I stare at him, remembering that anxious-ridden girl all those months ago, who saved a man that changed her life. His eyes dart to my mouth and he’s worrying with his lip.
I love him. I want him forever.
“Do you often make it a habit to ask girls in your bed to marry you, Mr. Morozov?” I ask, teasing in my best impression of Luka’s voice. The twitch of his mouth means he’ll play along.
“Just you, Mrs. Morozov.”
Epilogue
Luka
Three Months Later
The calendar reminder dings on my phone:
