"Good morning, little dove."
She turns fast, catches me in the doorway, and her eyes drop. Blush heats her cheeks. "Oh God. Already?"
I look down. My morning wood has turned into seeing-her-half-naked wood. I can't hide it when I’m not wearing anything.
"Didn't notice." I step into the closet. The lie is obvious, but I commit to it anyway.
Her blush deepens. "You're impossible."
"You're the one standing there in a towel." I lean against the doorframe. "What's wrong?"
She gestures at the racks. "All of this. It's all the same."
"What do you mean?"
"These." She pulls out a shirt. Oversized. Gray. Generic. Pulls out another. Black this time, but an identical cut. "Every single thing here is a baggy t-shirt. Who picked these? Did you tell someone, 'Buy shirts,' and they bought the same one in every color?"
I almost smile. "Pyotr doesn't believe in fashion."
"And the other side?" She moves to the right wall where suits hang in perfect lines. Charcoal, navy, black. "Just men'sclothing. So you keep a whole wardrobe for every Bratva soldier who visits?"
I walk closer and touch one of the suits. The fabric is familiar under my fingers. "I don't know. These are probably mine."
"You don't even know what's in your own closet?"
"Never paid attention." I watch her sort through hangers, looking for something. "It's just clothes."
"Just clothes," she mutters. "Says the man who wears thousand-dollar suits."
"Ten thousand. If we're being accurate."
She stops and turns to look at me. "You're not helping your case."
But then she finds it—buried in the back between the baggy shirts. One of her old shirts from the duffel bag I packed. Faded blue, probably from Target, the hem frayed.
She pulls it out like treasure, smiling. "Finally!"
I stand, arms crossed, watching this girl who slept in silk sheets, ate breakfast served by my staff, and is now losing her mind over a Target special.
If I gave her a silk blouse, she’d probably ask if it came in blue cotton.
"Privacy?" she says, glancing up.
The request makes me laugh. "Seriously? There's nothing down there I haven't seen."
"Ivan—"
"And touched. And tasted. And?—"
"You're awful." But she's smiling when she drops the towel.
The sight punches through me. Water droplets still clinging to her shoulders. The curve of her hips. The marks I left on her thighs last night.
My cock goes from interested to demanding. I lean against the wall because standing requires more focus than I have available.
She turns, catching me watching. "Now you're really awful."
"You're the one dating a Bratva lord."
