“Alright.” He bursts out laughing, and while I school my features to look offended, I’m smiling inside. His laughter is much better than his scowling face.
“What? It’s popular. My Instagram feed is full of chicks with gym selfies. They say it does wonders for the butt muscles. Maybe I could take some pictures or even videos and upload them as well. I like those stretchy neon outfits and—”
In the next moment, I find myself sitting on the counter in front of Roman, who is holding my chin between his fingers and staring daggers at me. “No selfies in stretchy clothes.”
“Oh, don’t be such a grump. Everyone is posting those.”
“My wife is not everyone.”
Damn. It melts my insides every time he calls me that. And I secretly love his jealous streak. It’s so cute. I lean in and straighten the collar of his shirt, then run my fingers through his still slightly wet hair.
“You are one disturbingly sexy man, Roman.”
He breaks eye contact, looking down into his glass of juice. “Even with the crutches?”
Yup, that therapy session definitely didn’t go well.
“Even with the crutches, Roman.” I kiss him, and make sure to bite his lower lip, just a little. “What did Warren say?”
“That I’m doing fucking great.” Based on the way he’s gritting his teeth, and that the knuckles on his hands are white from how hard he grips the crutches, their opinions defer quite a bit. “I have to go. I’ll be back by dinner.” He places a kiss on my forehead and leaves.
He’s hurting. And it makes my chest hurt as well.
I sit on the counter for a long time after he’s gone, looking down at the floor.
“Perfect,” I mumble to myself. “Just perfect.”
The head of the Russian criminal syndicate. A drug dealer. A killer. And I managed to fall in love with him. Someone please just lock me up in a mental institution, because that’s apparently where I belong.