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“You’re showering here?” I ask, somehow achieving a semi-normal tone.
He arches a dark, mocking eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Don’t you have another cabin? The one where your clothes are?”
“That’s my office,” he answers, confirming my earlier guess. “And my clothes are only there temporarily. My personal shopper didn’t understand the space constraints here, so she overdid it with your clothes, leaving no room for mine in this closet. I’ve already asked Vika to fix this situation by transferring some of your clothes to the other cabin and some of mine here.” He crosses the floor and stops next to the bed. Looking down at me, he states, “You’ll assist her.”
I glare up at him and push up to my feet—a mistake, as it puts us so close together his body nearly touches mine. And I still have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. Regardless, I refuse to be intimidated. “Why would I?”
I certainly don’t want his stuff here.
“Because otherwise, you’ll end up with clothes you dislike in the most convenient closet and vice versa,” he replies with maddening logic.
“As if I care. I dislike all these clothes.”
I actually haven’t had a chance to look at most of them, and what I’ve seen so far is exactly to my taste, but I’m not about to tell him that.
“In that case, I’ll assist Vika.” His lips stretch into a mocking semblance of a smile, and he lifts his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear before trailing his knuckles down my jaw. “You know, I think there are certain clothes I’d prefer to see you in all the time… like bikini swimsuits and lingerie. Or maybe nothing at all.”
I swat his hand away before it can brush my collarbone. “Then why did you get me a closet full of designer outfits?”
“Because I wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home here. But if you dislike everything anyway…” He shrugs his broad shoulders, causing little droplets of water to fly at me.
I fight the perverse urge to lick the remaining droplets off his chest. Instead, I take a step to the side, putting more distance between us, and say with as much iciness as I can muster, “You’re dripping water everywhere, like a wet dog.”
He doesn’t look insulted. His onyx eyes glimmer with amusement, and one corner of his lips curls up in a decidedly wolfish smirk. “Want to come dry me, help me change?”
“Hard pass,” I say, and immediately hate myself for how breathy the words come out. With the AC pumping in cool air through the vents, it’s almost chilly in the room, but I feel flushed, overly warm—and I know exactly what’s to blame.
I haven’t had a chance to examine Alexei’s tattoos up close before, and I can’t help sneaking a look at his inked skin now. The tattoos decorating his chest and arms are nothing short of a work of art, with each image smoothly flowing into the next. A lot of the individual tattoos are dragons, intricately detailed and so realistically drawn that they look like they’ll breathe fire at any moment. Each movement of his shoulder muscles makes the wings of one of the dragons flex, as if it’s about to take flight and—
“Like what you see?” Alexei asks, dark amusement dripping through each syllable, and I flush hotter.
Forcing my gaze up to his face, I ask, “Why the dragons?”
There’s no point in pretending I wasn’t staring.
“No particular reason,” he answers. “I just liked the way the artist drew them.”
That simple? Somehow, I doubt it. “Why so much ink in general?”
In our circles in Moscow, even among my generation, tattoos are still a bit of a taboo—especially prominent, visible ones, like the kind Alexei is sporting. They’re too closely associated with prisons and labor camps, and even though the business practices of the richest Russians are often extra-legal, they don’t like to think of themselves as criminals. I know my father didn’t.
Alexei’s white teeth flash in a sharp, dangerous grin. “Why do you think, my beauty? I needed something to take my mind off the fact that I couldn’t have you.”
My breath catches and my flush intensifies, the heat spreading to my neck and chest. I want to turn away, to hide from the scorching intensity in his stare, but my feet are rooted to the ground, any attempt at a reply stuck in my throat. When I finally manage to speak, my voice is strained. “You could’ve had someone else.”
“Yes, I could have.” He steps up to me and clasps my hands in each of his, holding them tightly at his sides as he says in a low, rough voice, “I didn’t want anyone else, Alinyonok. I’ve never wanted anyone the way that I want you. And it’s not just about sex for me. I want to hold you, take care of you, keep you safe…” His eyes glow with dark fervor. “I want to make you happy.”
