She tenses too, her eyes locked on mine, her slender body stiff with the primal awareness of prey. A trickle of strawberry juice escapes her mouth, and I instinctively catch it with my thumb, my heart hammering violently at the feel of her warm skin, the plushness of her bottom lip, all glossy red and sticky from the juice. Holding her gaze, I bring my thumb to my mouth and suck it clean, the way I’d suck on those sweet, berry-sticky lips of hers if I could trust myself to stop there.
Her eyes widen, her breath hitching at my action as her gaze drops to my lips for a beat before meeting my eyes again. She’s as turned on as I am, I can see it, and the scorching tension simmers in the air between us, heating the room until my very bones feel like they’re on fire, my cock so hard the zipper is going to leave an imprint on its length. I can all but feel her supple flesh under my palms, can all but taste those glistening, red-tinted lips—
A distant peal of childish laughter brings me to my senses, and I realize I was leaning toward her, my hand already fisting in her blanket. Fuck. Unclenching my fist, I jackknife to my feet and stride over to the window. Dragging in deep, cleansing breaths, I take in the sight of my son running around the driveway with Arkash chasing him. He’s laughing so hard I can hear him even through the bulletproof glass, and the sound further clears the fog of lust enveloping my brain.
Fucking fuck. I thought I had a handle on myself—I was sure of it after I bathed her yesterday while maintaining rigid self-control. I wanted her, yes, but I could distance myself from that want and focus solely on her well-being, on the fact that she was just out of surgery and needed me to be her caretaker. Today, though, she’s better—and my self-control is a thousand times worse.
“Um, Nikolai…” Chloe’s tone is uncertain, her voice soft and slightly husky. Hearing it makes me shudder with hunger once again. This time, though, she’s not right there, and it’s easier to pull myself together, reining in the savage need.
Smoothing out my expression, I lock my hands together behind my back and turn to face her. “Yes, zaychik?”
Her delicate throat ripples with a swallow. “What’s Slava doing out there?”
“Playing a game of tag with one of my guards.” I walk back to the bed and sit at the foot of it, about as far away from her as I can be while still occupying the same piece of furniture. “Pavel must’ve asked him to watch Slava while he cleans up after lunch.”
Her small white teeth worry her bottom lip. “Right. Right.” Watching me intently, she picks up the coffee mug and blows on the hot liquid. I can guess what’s going through her mind—she’s debating the best way to approach the topic of greatest interest to her—so I decide to help her out.
I’m not ready to talk about my father, but I can tell her the truth about my son.
Holding her gaze, I say evenly, “Five years ago, my brother Valery celebrated his twenty-second birthday at a nightclub in Moscow. It was the party of the year; everyone who’s anyone in our part of the world was there—including, as I learned later, Ksenia Leonova, the reclusive daughter of our family’s long-time enemy and rival.”
Chloe frowns in confusion. “Leonova? As in, the Leonovs you mentioned earlier? The actual Russian mafia family?”
“They would reject that label also, but yes. They fish in a much dirtier pond. In any case, unlike her brother Alexei, Ksenia had always stayed out of the public eye, so I had no idea who she was when she approached me.” I take a breath to control the familiar rage kindling inside me. “I thought she was just another socialite or model wannabe, so we danced, downed a few shots, and then went to a hotel to fuck.”
Chloe flinches slightly, the coffee mug wobbling in her hand. I move swiftly, grabbing it from her and placing it back on the tray before any of the dark liquid can spill. Then I sit closer to her.
The good thing about remembering Ksenia is that it kills my libido dead.
“I wore a condom, as I always do,” I continue, and Chloe’s eyes widen. She must realize where the story is heading. “Yes,” I say before she can ask, “it broke. Either that or she tampered with it somehow—I still don’t know which it is. I didn’t notice anything at the time. I’d had a few drinks, and the night wasn’t especially memorable. In fact, I’d forgotten all about it until a little over eight months ago, when I got a call from a friend of Ksenia’s telling me that Ksenia had died in a car crash, leaving behind a son—my son, according to her diary.”