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But it doesn’t.
19
EMMA
I shouldn’tbe telling him about the appointment. It’s none of his business. And I don’t even want him there.
So then explain to me why I am currently ambling along through the confusing mess of pathways and rooms in search of Ruslan so that I can inform him of my next doctor’s visit.
Just trying to save myself some drama down the line. That’s all this is. I don’t want an excuse to see him. I’m simply being mature here.
It has absolutelynothingto do with the hot-as-sin dream I had about Ruslan last night. It involved a hot oil massage, followed by very intense foreplay. I woke up in the gray of the pre-dawn having soaked through my panties.
I ask one of the maids I run into if she’s seen Ruslan anywhere and she points me in the direction of the gym. It took me a couple of days to figure out that Kirill’s house tour when we first arrived had excluded the west wing—which just so happens to be Ruslan’s side of the house.
I take a petty pride in stepping right over that imaginary line in the sand.
The color palette shifts as I venture from our wing to his. It hardens, neutralizes. Less blue and green, more tan and gray. I come up to the gym and it takes some pushing to get the door open.
If I were someone who was remotely interested in gyms, I might have been impressed. As it stands, the space doesn’t do much for me.
The man on the other end of the gym however…hot damn.
He’s wearing a pair of black nylon shorts and nothing else. He’s got boxing gloves on and he’s railing hard on a punching bag suspended from the ceiling by a thick metal chain. With every powerful punch, the chain groans, the bag swings and his back muscles ripple with power.
I wouldn’t mind being that punching bag if it means getting pounded like that.
I cringe at myself. Seriously. These hormones are out of control. It’s one thing to be ogling him in my dreams; it’s an entirely different thing to be objectifying him in real life.
I never thought I’d actually prefer the morning sickness phase. No shame in that game.Thisphase however… It’s like an itch that I can’t scratch. I tried scratching it myself last night after I woke up from that very vivid dream but, even after I’d gotten off, I was left feeling hollow and dissatisfied.
The solution is obvious—I need an actual penis. Preferably one that is attached to a hot-blooded man.Thishot-blooded man, to be specific. But since that isn’t gonna be happening anytime soon, I’m gonna have to make do with a silicone substitute if I can get my hands on one.
Hm, how inappropriate would it be to putthaton my food cravings list for Kirill?
Yeah. Very.
I’ll have to figure out a way to order some special toys for myself without either Kirill or Ruslan finding out. Until then, I’ll just have to satisfy myself with the eye candy on display right now.
“Whatcha looking at?”
I clap my hands over my mouth to stifle a scream as I whirl around to find Kirill at my side.
He smirks. “Enjoying the view, are we?”
I glower at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was just… I wasn’t looking at… I just came to…Shut up.”
He pretends to back out of the room slowly. “Is there something I can help you with or do you wanna just ogle Ruslan some more?”
“I wasnot. And also—shh!” His face is going red from the need to laugh. “Seriously, Kirill. Stop drawing attention. He’s gonna turn around and—oh, fuck, he’s coming—will you stop giggling?”
Ruslan stalks towards us, eyes narrowing. There are only two looks he gives me these days: suspicion and irritation. Today’s glare is a fun little blend of the two. I don’t mind, though—I’m a little distracted by the eight-pack abs staring me in the face.
“He doesn’t own a shirt?” I say under my breath.
“Kirill. Find out what she wants.” Ruslan’s whip-sharp voice carries across the gym.
Kirill turns to me. “I assume you’re here for a reason. Unless that reason is to be bent over the bench press?”
