“I’ve never told you any.” I don’t think.
“Didn’t you?” Knowing lurks in the corner of his mouth. “I wonder how I know that it once took you and Alexander three hours to put a suit of armor back together?”
“What?” The word is half amused, half indignant.
“I know about the staircase and the tray—”
“That was Sandy, not me.” I laugh. “I was far too sensible to race down the staircase on a silver tea tray.”
“But not too sensible,” he persists.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, shielding my response with my champagne glass.
“So you didn’t race him to the bottom on the banister?”
“It was much safer than a tea tray! My brother has a big mouth,” I add in a grumble.
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he’ll be in a sharing mood again.” His expression turns inward and my heart gives a little pinch for him.
“He’ll come around,” I say, impulsively reaching for his hand. I realize, as I do, what a turnaround this is. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions. And I did decide,” I add, biting off the rest of my admission. I decided it was you long ago. Even if you forced my hand this time, I think, as I slide my hair behind my ear. With a tiny burst of pleasure, I realize he follows the motion. “Wednesday,” I murmur. “A favorable day to get married.”
“Is it?” He sounds amused, and I sound like I’m talking nonsense. And I am as I reach inside me for more of the stuff. Anything other than telling the truth because this truth will not set me free. It’ll shackle me to him instead, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
“As the saying goes, you should marry on a Monday for wealth—”
“I am quite rich.”
“And Tuesday for health,” I add, ignoring this. Mainly because, “Wednesday is the best day of all.” His expression lightens, though I hurry on. “Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, and a Saturday marriage brings no luck at all.”
“Wednesday is the best day to get married?” He quirks a teasing brow.
“Well, I can confirm by experience that Saturday weddings are the worst.”
As he presses a sudden finger to my lips, the sweetest percussion begins inside. “Wednesday is my new favorite day.”
I taste the salt of his finger as it retracts, my gaze snagging on the long line of his throat as he tips back his head, draining his glass. When he leans across me to deposit it on the chest of drawers, I find the broad expanse of his chest is just a whisper away. I am suddenly fascinated, and before I know it, my hand is moving of its own accord, lifting to caress his flat, copper-colored nipple. The sharp intake of his breath seems so loud in the room, the tremor that runs through him a delight to behold.
He whispers my name, the sound low and throaty, as he twists his body, encouraging the contact as though I might have other plans. My fingers trace his ribs, sliding down that delectable trail of downy hair.
“Yes, touch me.” I relish the rumble in his chest as I lean closer, and my tongue darts out to taste him. He hisses a curse as I use my teeth, my hand sliding down to the drawstring waist of his pants. I pull on the knot, then hook my thumb into the soft cotton to drag the fabric lower. Heat and need rushes through my veins. The curve of his firm backside, the delicious dip of his hips, I want to press my teeth there. Trace my lips to feel him shiver. I want it all, and I want it now.
I shift in my seat and so does he, taking my glass and placing it with his before he brings his knees to the seat cushions either side of my thighs. My mouth waters as the fine fabric of his pants reveals the proud outline of his thick cock. I’ve always loved the sight of Niko in an evening suit, and the man can fill a pair of jeans like he was born to do so. But I might’ve just found my favorite version of him as he stares down at me like some angry Norse god.
My hand seems to lift by its own volition, my fingers trailing the swirl of Cyrillic script tattooed to his chest. “Tell me what it says,” I whisper softly.
“Inquisitive darling?”
“As long as it isn’t an ode to another woman.” My heart does a painful little jitterbug at the knowing in his smile. A smile that doesn’t last as I press my nail into his skin. “It isn’t, is it?”
“Are there other women but you?” There’s a darkness in his expression as he takes my fingers, trailing them over the script. “With love, one can live even without happiness.”