I kissed her cheek. Soft. Intentional. Then her temple. Slower. Reverent. My lips lingered just inches from hers, so close I tasted the hesitation and heat hanging between us.
Not asking. Not assuming. Just patient.
Natasha leaned in. Her forehead rested against mine. Her voice a breath. “You’re making this hard. It’s easier to kiss you out and about while wearing hoodies.”
I smiled. “That’s the idea.”
Her fingers curled into my shirt. Mine slid around her waist, pulling her against me like I needed her closer to breathe right. Her lips brushed mine once—just the barest graze. I swear my entire body paused.
She kissed me.
And nothing was shy about it.
It was slow, deep. Hot, achy, hungry in a way that told me she wasn’t just kissing me now. She was kissing all the times we hadn’t. All the weeks ofalmostduring those rough months at the beginning, when she hesitated. All themaybesthat hovered every time we stood too close. All those hours of phone calls.
I groaned against her mouth. One hand tangled in her short waves, the other pressed the small of her back like I could memorize every curve she let me hold. Cherish.
She was fire in my arms. Soft, fierce, and restrained.
When she pulled away, her lips were swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d run a mile. And her eyes—damn, those eyes—held mine like they could read every unfinished promise I made her.
“I still have to go,” she whispered.
My hold remained firm because nothing about this felt temporary. Not anymore. I pressed my mouth to hers again. Tasted Natasha’s lips again.
“I’ve got a jet to catch,” she said, eyes closed.
“Rublyovka. Your parents are already there,” I said between kisses.
“So let me go, Lach,” she murmured. “If you don’t let me go … I won’t go.”
“Good. I’ll keep you.” I groaned, scrubbed a hand through my hair, making space between us. “Your dad would send the whole bratva to hunt me down if you missed Christmas. The clout Jamie and Jordyn garnered would vanish.”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
I didn’t answer.
Because that wasn’t true.
Vassili Resnov might’ve let his daughter be around the MacKenzies, but me? He watched me the way a lion studies a threat. Like he already knew what flower arrangement to bring to my funeral.
Jamie’s girl—now his wife—had saved Natasha during her senior year of high school. Prom. Roofie. An opposing bratva son signed his death papers. I wondered if Vassili might accept any of my other six brothers. I was almost the middle child. Brody, Leith, Camdyn, Jamie, me, Rory, Jake.
Probably not. Vassili had been my biggest fan, along with Natasha. He loved us. Loved the Dodgers. When we started dating, he saw me as an enemy. Eh. Maybe he was an overprotective father. He didn’t want her with anyone. As a fellow athlete, I saw grounds for his hatred. Athletes weren’t known for their fidelity.
I forced a smile. “Understood. I’ve gotta get some sleep for an early flight back to LA, anyway. Dodger pre-camp stuff. And my dad will throw a fit if I miss another Christmas family dinner.”
We laughed, but the ache was already forming. She glanced at the photos one last time, her fingers ghosting a frame’s border.
She picked up her camera bag and slipped the strap over her shoulder. Natasha confirmed her personal driver was around the corner on the elevator.
The lobby was quieter. I stayed close to Natasha’s side, fingers tangled in hers, neither of us wanting to break the moment. Hotel staff, clad in uniforms, opened the door for us.
The icy chill reached in before we stepped a foot outside. Good. I could use the cold. Dating a woman who valued her virginity made me end the day with ice baths.
Outside, the street was alive. Holiday tourists. Taxi horns. A street performer singing off-key. People bustled through the city. For me? Everything stilled. I reached for Natasha’s wrist, gently stopping her just as a black Mercedes G-Wagon slipped to the curb. Her personal driver stepped out.
“Wait.”
