I could tell Lev the truth about what the little kotyonok does to my cock, about that weird clenching feeling she ignites in my chest, but I’m not interested in explaining shit to him.
It’s irrelevant, anyway. Jessa’s sudden intrusion into my life changes nothing. The trajectory remains the same.
No matter how sexy she is.
No matter how alluring that smile of hers may be.
“Probably because you make it your job to worry,” I suggest acidly. “Now, get out of here. I need to handle some paperwork.”
“Oh, is that right?” Lev asks suspiciously. “Is that what you’re calling jerking off now? ‘Handling your paperwork?’”
“Get the hell out.”
Chuckling, Lev leaves.
I turn off the cameras, but Jessa is still on my mind. I’m rock fucking solid and I badly need a release. But I already know the only release I’ll be satisfied with is one that involves her.
This is not good.
I’ve never felt this kind of craving for a woman before. She’s nothing like my past fare. She’s awkward and clumsy. She’s vulnerable and emotional. She’s confused and uncertain—and despite all that, she is brimming with untapped fire. Each of her reactions have been as unexpected as my feelings for her.
Just knowing she’s downstairs in my house, humming under her breath and singing as she cooks for me, is enough to bring me to the edge of coming.
No, not good at all.
I think, probably not by accident, about Marina. She’d have done anything to dominate my thoughts like this. Hell, she tried. She used to show up to my office in lingerie, whisper filthy promises in my ear, beg and plead and cry.
None of it worked. The Bratva was all that mattered.
But now, as blasphemous as it is, I’m thinking, Fuck the Bratva. All I want to do is storm down the stairs and make that little kiska scream my name.
I’m on my feet before I even know what I’m doing. Operating on pure autopilot. I don’t even think about it—I just go straight to the kitchen.
When I round the corner, she’s got her back to me, washing dishes in the sink and wiggling her hips to the tune of the song she’s singing to herself. The room around her is bursting with life. Bowls and strainers are strewn across the counters between culinary devices I’ve never seen used for as long as I’ve lived here. Spoons and spices and the smell, the smell, oh fuck me—the smell is fucking divine.
I can feel her good mood from here. Evidently, she can feel my presence, too, because she whirls around suddenly—and that good mood withers on the vine.
“Jesus,” she gasps, her hand on her heart. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to be able to tell that you can’t sing.”
She frowns. “As if you have the voice of an angel.”
“So some have said.”
She rolls her eyes. “Did you threaten someone before you asked them for an opinion? Because, knowing your style, I’m not sure you can trust what they told you under duress.”
I move into the kitchen and look around. “Not exactly a clean chef, are you?”
“Guess you’re not the only one with a messy professional style.” She narrows her eyes. “Did you just come here to criticize? Or is there another reason you’re in my kitchen?”
“Your kitchen?” I laugh. “That was quick.”
“So long as I’m the chef here, it’s my kitchen,” she says firmly.
I nod slowly. “I can respect that. So long as you’ve respected my menu. I’m looking forward to steak tonight.”
Her expression hardens into determination. “You really expected me to follow your bullshit, paint-by-numbers menu for the night?”