“Oh.” Her lashes flutter rapidly as she comes back to herself. “It’s very nice. Tasteful.”
“Do you want to inspect the other rooms? There’s a room at the end of the hall where I often strip before getting hot and steamy.” My hand retracts belatedly from the handle, and I allow my gaze to roam over her so she doesn’t miss the innuendo. Fuck. Her nipples are so hard under the thin cotton of her blouse. How is a man supposed to think straight when she’s inviting me with those eyes?
“Naked?” Her tongue darts out to moisten her bottom lip.
“And steamy,” I almost whisper. There is no way on this earth we’re ever going to be friends.
“You have a sauna,” she answers, equally soft.
“Yes.” My head continues its downward trajectory, pulled in by her dark eyes and her scent. “Why do you smell like orange blossom?” I inhale a deep lungful and give in to the temptation of her hair, curling a lock around my finger.
“There you go again with that pleasure-lover’s tongue.”
“Oh, darling.” Her breath halts as my lips skim her ear. Want and ought seem like such distant concepts when her scent is filling my nose and her mouth is within kissing distance. An ache expands from the base of my stomach and, all at once, I’m determined to have her at any cost. Tipping forward, I press my cheek to hers and whisper, “This tongue would love to taste your pleasure.” My hand slides to the back of her neck, and she sucks in a breath as my lips feather over hers.
She breathes my name, soft and hot against my lips. With a low groan, I pull her closer desperate to taste her. Less than an inch separates us, when—
The intercom buzzes. Like a bell calling time. I ache and I hate as I halt, drawing back with a reluctance that makes me feel like I’m wading through treacle.
“I’m sorry.” Sorry for my actions and sorry for myself as my hands slide to her shoulders to put her away from me, severing our connection. “It was wrong of me.” Turning swiftly, I head for the intercom.
“Saved by the bell,” Isla whispers, almost to herself.
Saved from me or saved from ourselves.
“Da?”
After a brief conversation over the intercom with Sergei, an employee? Associate? A member of … our family operations, and a doer of distasteful tasks, I turn to find Isla sliding her massive purse over her shoulder.
“I’d better be going,” she says without lifting her eyes to mine. “You’re obviously busy.”
“I’m never too busy for you.”
“But still.” Her gaze drops, and she begins to rummage in her bag. “I’d best be on my way.”
“Not without these.” I grab the keys from where she’d dropped them on the kitchen counter. She allows me to take her hand, and I press the keys into her palm, folding my fingers over hers. “There’s nothing I can do with a car that’s no longer registered in my name. Unless you want me to be accused of stealing it.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“The best kind of wagers often are.” They’re also often the ones with the best kind of payoff.
We make our way to the old elevator and ride it down to the ground floor. At the front door, she pauses, glancing down at the keys in her hand.
“Isla.” Her name sounds halting and wrong on my lips. “I would’ve risked a lot more than a car for a kiss. But your brother has been my friend for a long time.” Stick to her brother as a reason. No need to complicate matters further.
“Please, Niko, stop trying to explain. I understand,” she says, dipping her head, her hair shielding her face. “You don’t have to keep repeating yourself. But it’s clear you and I aren’t destined to be friends.” Her head lifts, and the corner of her mouth tilts. “Because we can’t seem to keep our hands to ourselves.”
“I regret nothing.” Except not having her. Stopping when we did.
“Goodbye, Niko.” She tips on her toes, her hand curling around my shoulder as she presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Goodbye, Peanut.” She rolls her eyes and steps out into the cold early evening. She doesn’t look back as she unlocks the car, sliding into the darkened interior.
“She wasn’t here long.”
I close the door and turn to the sound of Sergei’s guttural Russian.
“Long enough.” I choose to answer in English, much to his annoyance. But Russian isn’t my preferred language. Finnish is. It’s not called a mother tongue for no reason.
“Not long enough for the way you like to fuck,” he leers.
“What do you know about my sex life? You been listening at the door again?” He scowls. I smile. “I expect you’ve forgotten which hole it goes into.”
“Stop talking like that, or I might be forced to remind you.”