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“You’re brilliant. You could learn Russian if you want to.”
Maybe I like the sound of enigmatic words in his sometimes-harsh mother tongue.
I shrug. “Maybe I will. I don’t play much, no. My parents couldn’t afford piano lessons, so I used to sneak into the back of the school gymnasium so I could listen in on piano lessons some of the kids took after school. I did my best to listen and then practice when no one was there, but it’s a hard habit to hide, and the other kids eventually found out.” I want to change the subject. The memory of my shame when I was discovered still burns. “So you enlisted, then?”
“I did.”
No further elaboration. Interesting.
“How long?”
“Twelve years.”
Whoa. Twelve years. That’s a long time.
“Are any of the tattoos you have related to the army?”
His accent thickens. “None. These are all Bratva.”
Bratva.
The way he says it makes me shiver.
“Can you tell me what they mean?”
“Eventually, maybe.”
As he talks, I’m aware of his hardened length pressed up against my butt, and my own body tightly coiled with arousal that snakes around my belly and pulses between my thighs. Once wasn’t enough.
“I didn’t know you were in the military.”
A hint of ice flickers in his gaze. “There are many things you don’t know about me, little hacker.”
I do what I’ve longed to do — reach my hand to the stubble on his chin and cup his jaw. Though he stiffens, he allows it, and I don’t need him to tell me this is an allowance he likely affords no one else.
“There are many things I don’t know about you, yes. But there are many things I do.”
The roughness of the stubble on his chin bites into my palm, sending awareness and a pulse of need between my legs. I wonder what it would feel like if that stubble scratched my thighs…
“I know you can be ruthless. You have no qualms about violence and taking human life if you feel it’s justified. You’re skilled with weapons and not just the ones you hold – you’ve conditioned your body to be used as a weapon, too. You don’t like clutter, lies or disorder. You have routines and systems in place because you run your family like you’d run the military. You are direct with your words and instructions.”
I swallow. “You take care of what’s yours.” I look away, suddenly bashful. “I mean, your home is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
I have the sudden desire to lay my head on his chest. For just a little while, to stop carrying the burden of my constantly churning mind, fear of what happens next, and the ever present need to be on high alert.
“Am I wrong?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
Encouraged, I continue. “You are courageous and determined. Action-oriented with little fear of the aftermath. You are a natural-born leader. Assertive. Resilient. Protective and likely resourceful as well.”
He narrows his eyes but doesn’t respond. I take a bold step and brush the pad of my thumb across his full lower lip, my voice a whisper now. “You struggle with vulnerability. You can be aggressive and impatient, and I’d hazard a guess you’re total sh—absolutely terrible at obeying those in authority over you.”
He grunts. “Very good censoring your language.”
I shrug. My stomach gives an audible growl.
