Okay, mind-blowing, life-altering, potentially ruined-other-men-forever sex.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to reset my brain.
This is fine. This is normal. Just a casual morning after being held captive by a mobster who happens to be the best lover I've ever had.
God, my life is a disaster.
I brush my teeth with the toothbrush he left—because of course kidnappers keep guest bathrooms stocked—and try not to think about how domestic this all is. Totally normal… aside from the whole being-held-captive part.
I turn on the shower and let the hot water wash away the evidence of last night. My muscles protest every movement, a reminder of how thoroughly he claimed me.
When I emerge, Ivan's sitting in the chair by the window.
I yelp, clutching my towel tighter. "Jesus! How long have you been there?"
"Long enough." He's in full suit mode, looking criminally handsome with his coffee. "Good morning."
"You could've announced yourself."
"I did. You were singing in the shower, by the way."
My face burns hotter. "I was not singing."
"Humming, then. Off-key." His smile is pure masculine satisfaction. "Cute."
"Where are my clothes?"
"Laundry."
"All of them? At the same time?"
"Correct." He sets down his coffee and stands. "I brought breakfast."
There's a tray on the nightstand I hadn’t noticed. Fresh fruit, croissants, and that fancy jam that probably costs more than my rent. Orange juice in an actual glass, not a plastic cup.
"I'm not hungry." My stomach immediately betrays me with a loud growl.
"I can hear your stomach from across the room."
"Fine. I'm hungry. Happy?"
"Getting there." He crosses to the bed, and I'm suddenly aware of how little there is between us. "You don't have to protest, by the way. The hand-feeding was a one-time thing. Probably. Who knows?" His smile suggests he's considering making it permanent. "But breakfast comes after step five."
My stomach drops. "Step five?"
"Step five," he confirms, reaching into his jacket.
He pulls out a sketchbook. Brand new, pristine white pages that practically glow with possibility. Then, a set of charcoal pencils in a wooden case, the kind I've drooled over in art stores but could never justify buying.
"What the hell’s step five?"
"Draw what you want me to do to you tonight."
The words detonate in the room's silence. I take in him, the supplies, and that face showing zero shame over this request.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Draw out your fantasies. What you want.What you've been imagining." He sets the supplies on the bed beside me. "Be creative. Be detailed. I want you to show me what you want without embarrassment or second-guessing. I want to crawl inside that filthy little head of yours and see every secret you try to hide.”
