“I…”
“Dog gone and got your tongue?” He doesn’t smile.
I don’t laugh. “Your jokes are getting worse.”
“And you’re just getting prettier.”
“Ilya…I…” My voice chokes as everything in me leans into him, craves him, wants more of that touch, his heat, the scent of him.
He really is gorgeous. And I can’t look away from those brown eyes that swirl with an entire unexplored world, one I desperately want to know.
“I should go.”
“No.” The word’s out before I can stop it, and I touch him, too, running a finger along his lips and over his unshaven cheek.
It’s like I offered him an invitation.
And he accepts it when he moves toward me. Slow. Steady.
There’s plenty of time to run, to change the subject. To pull back.
I don’t.
And his lips touch mine.
My world rocks under me, the soft zing of his lips meeting mine sliding down into my belly to writhe, stirring up all the feelings and sensations I haven’t felt in a long time. The buzz of arousal, the rush of blood to my clit and a dampness that seems to pool.
My lips part, and the kiss deepens, his tongue slipping into my mouth. I meet his with mine.
The kiss is deep, wild, dirty, and I throb like he’s feeling me up. The edge of passion is electric, something I want to plug into.
The kiss deepens, our tongues slow dancing, and I’m losing myself in him, in the heat of his mouth, the wetness, the sweet stroke and tease of his tongue.
It’s like he’s playing me, making me come alive on a different kind of level I’ve never, ever felt. And I want more. I want to drown in him, fly with him, explore those deep, wild, and dirty depths.
A moan escapes me. His fingers start to slide down my side, and?—
“No.” Ilya breaks the kiss and pulls away.
My head spins, and trying to form words in that moment is impossible.
“I’m sorry. I was out of line,” he says to me in Russian. “I made a promise to keep things between us simple, and the last thing I want to do is ruin our friendship by taking a step you’re not ready for, Alina.”
Or he just doesn’t want the complications of a woman who may transfer affection from the dead to the living. Of course he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want my baggage. Perhaps he just doesn’t want me. He hasn’t ever made a move before. So why now?
Him seeing me excited about something tells me how lifeless I’ve been.
Heat burns up my throat and coils through me at his rejection, one which comes with all the excuses, lined up at the ready.
“What I am ready for is bed.”
“You don’t want dinner?” He gets up with his glass of wine and moves to the other side of the room, like he really can’t wait to put as much distance between us as possible.
I shake my head. “No. It was a long day, and I had something at the shelter. I need to be back tomorrow morning. Thanks for looking at my ideas. Have a good night.”
With that, I take my computer and race out of the room and up the steps. When I’m in my room, the door locked behind me, I sink into the chair in there, one I put near the open balcony door.
My emotions churn inside.
