Not feeling better at all, I open the note and stare at its contents, my hatred rising up in my throat like bile.
Rose,
My room.
Naked.
Now.
-N
I hate him. I do. I also hate the eagerness that snakes through me, alongside the cruel uptick of my pulse and the spike of excitement. I want him so badly, I’m shaking. I want his touch so desperately, I can barely stand it.
I’m nauseous as I strip off the shirt and try the door. She didn’t lock it. Naked, I pad to his room, spying golden light spilling on the hall’s floor. I tap lightly then step in, the door cracked open.
I’m pretty sure my lungs have stopped working.
He’s standing at the foot of his bed, folding the shirt he’s just stripped from his body. He’s a study in erotic perfection. Utterly masculine. Lithe. Beautifully muscled. Covered in tattoos. There’s a line of what looks like Latin in cursive script down his spine, angels and demons and monsters writhing in what looks like some dark hellscape on his back and down his arms. The art follows the tapered line of his torso and disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Nikolai isn’t wearing shoes and when he turns, I actually audibly gasp.
The pants are low slung, the top button undone, and his tattooed chest and abs—the same theme of gods and monsters covers those, too.
He is perfection.
I think I might be drooling.
I’ve never in my life seen a man so beautiful and masculine and sexy as him. He just looks at me, a slight frown marring his face, those lean cheeks slicing light and dark from his cheekbones, the light of his lamp making him a glorious art piece cloaked in shadow and gold.
“Rose.”
I haven’t seen him naked, but I want to. The need to see him fully burns inside me and I’m sure he can see the evidence of my arousal everywhere. Around him, I’m constantly wet. Always aching. Needing. Wanting.
My hand floats out, and I snatch it back. I want to touch him, run my fingers, my tongue over those muscles. I want to strip him bare, see his cock, feel the weight of it in my hands, the girth.
Hell, I don’t justwantto see him naked—I’m dying to.
“Rose,” he calls again, a note of exhaustion in his voice that catches in my chest. “Naked, pretty little Rose. Come here.”
My feet move of their own accord until I’m right in front of him, my breasts brushing against his skin.
“Eager.” He laughs a little, brushing my cheek, the tips of my breasts with the back of his hand. “Just how I like you. Ready and willing and waiting for me.” He dips down to whisper against my ear. “Wanting.”
I suck a breath in, and it catches, skittering. The heat of him, the power, winds around me like some kind of spell, a bond.
I can’t help myself anymore; I put my hand on his chest.
He doesn’t tell me not to.
“I had a fuck ton of work today, so…” He picks up my hand and sucks two of my fingers into his mouth before letting them go with a pop, and it sensation flies straight to my clit. “I couldn’t see you.”
A dark thrill rushes my blood at those words.
“Nikolai, I…” I stop. I what? Am I going to complain to him? Plead with him? Ask him nicely? I don’t know. The only thing that seems to exist is him and my need and what he does to me.
Right now, I want to sink to my knees, pull down his pants, and feel him. The pull shocks me. I crave having him in my mouth. I need him to use me. Nikolai lets go of my fingers and toys with my hair, eyes on the choker I’m still wearing, and they flare with satisfaction, something so purely male, it makes me throb.
“You were so good for me yesterday, Rose. So very good. In fact, you did your job so well, I owe you a reward.”