“Then what do you want from me?” I demanded, my hands coming up to push against his chest. He didn’t budge. “You want me to apologize for sleeping with you? Fine. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I cheated on my boyfriend with you. I’m sorry I lied this morning. I’m sorry for everything.”
“Stop calling him your boyfriend.” His voice went dangerously soft.
“Why? That’s what he is, isn’t he?” The lie tasted like ash, but I couldn’t take it back. Couldn’t tell him the truth. “You saw his name on my phone. You heard how he talks to me. What more do you need?”
“The truth.” His hands were still bracketing my head, caging me in. “I need the goddamn truth, Barbara. What the fuck is going on that has you so terrified you’re shaking just from a phone call?”
I shook my head, tears burning behind my eyes. “You don’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
“No.” The word came out firm despite the way my voice shook. “This is my problem. My life. You don’t get to just—to just storm in here and demand answers like you have some claim on me. We slept together. Once. That doesn’t give you the right to—”
“You’re in trouble,” he cut me off. “I can see it. Feel it. That bastard on the phone isn’t your boyfriend. He’s—”
“Enough.” I pushed harder against his chest, and this time he stepped back. Just one step, but it was enough to let me breathe again. “You don’t know anything about my life, Kirill. And you don’t get to stand there and judge me based on one night.”
His jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind. “Fine. You want to keep your secrets? Keep them. But don’t expect me to pretend I don’t see what’s happening here.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything.” My voice cracked. “I’m asking you to leave.”
For a moment, I thought he would argue. Thought he’d push harder, demand more, refuse to walk away. Part of me wanted him to. Part of me wanted someone—anyone—to care enough to break through the walls I’d built.
But he didn’t.
His expression shuttered, going cold and distant. Professional. Like I was just another job, another problem he’d decided wasn’t worth solving.
The silence stretched taut between us. Too hot. Too charged. Anger was fusing into something else entirely, something that made my skin flush and my pulse race. The tension coiled tight in my belly, building with each passing second.
Our breathing synced without me realizing it. His gaze dropped to my lips.
“This is a bad idea,” I whispered, even as my body swayed toward his.
“Terrible idea,” he agreed, his voice rough.
Then the space between us disappeared.
Like he was trying to punish me and save me at the same time, his hands left the wall to grip my waist, pulling me against him, and I responded without thinking. My arms wrappedaround his neck, fingers diving into his hair, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.
The kiss was nothing like last night. Last night had been heat and want. This was rage and confusion and need all tangled together into something that burned. His teeth caught my bottom lip, and I gasped. He took advantage, deepening the kiss until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel.
My robe slipped off one shoulder. His lips immediately traveled there, kissing down my throat, across my collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. I arched into him, my hands fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel skin on skin again.
“Barbara,” he groaned against my neck, and the sound of my name in his rough voice made me shiver.
My phone rang.
The sound cut through the moment like a knife. We both froze, his lips still pressed against my throat, my fingers still tangled in his shirt.
The phone rang again. Louder. More insistent.
Kirill lifted his head slowly, and I watched his gaze travel to where my phone sat on the nightstand. Watched his expression shutter as he saw what I already knew would be there.
Bass.
He went rigid against me. Then he pulled back like I’d burned him, his hands dropping from my waist. The loss of contact felt like a physical wound.
He looked at me, and what I saw in his eyes made my chest ache. Disgust. At me? At himself? I couldn’t tell.
