"I know it," I tell him, though the incessant racket from the front room is distracting me again. I've tried my best to avoid Fyodor for the past two days since I was in his office and he suggested helping me "relax". I knew then what he was insinuating, andI blame myself for it entirely. I was staring, caught red-handed drooling over his fucking body.
Just because a man is a work of art and easy on the eyes doesn't make him a good choice for a sexual partner. Who knows where he's put his dick? At least, that's what I keep telling myself every time I hear the low rumble of his voice or the familiar sound of his footfalls as he passes by the room we're working in. He thinks I don't know he watches, but I know it. I sense when he's watching. I just don't look up.
Eventually, the banging and doors opening and closing gets to me and I have to go investigate. "Keep working on those problems," I tell Sasha, standing from my chair. "I'll be right back." Then I make my way through the house toward the front room, following the sounds until I reach the foyer.
The front door stands wide open, letting cold air rush into the house, and I can see Fyodor's black SUV parked in the driveway with its rear gate lifted. Vasili and another man I don't recognize are loading bags into the back and organizing things.
I step closer to the door, wrapping my arms around myself against the cold. "What's happening? Where are you going?"
Vasili glances at me briefly before hefting another bag into the vehicle. "He didn't tell you?" he asks, gawking at me. "We're taking a trip."
"A trip where? For how long?" This doesn't make sense. How can Fyodor provide for Sasha's needs if he's off traveling around God knows where instead of being present?
"You'll have to ask him yourself." Vasili nods toward the interior of the house. "He's in the study."
I turn away from the door and head back through the house. I don’t know why the idea of his leaving annoys me when I've spent the past forty-eight hours avoiding him. I should be celebrating his little trip, but I find myself wanting to tell him off for just thinking about a trip at a time like this.
The study door is cracked open when I reach it, and I push it wider without knocking. Fyodor stands beside his desk with his back to me, shirtless again, and I freeze in the doorway. His hands press a wadded shirt against his left bicep where the wound from the other day has apparently reopened, fresh blood seeping between his fingers and running down toward his elbow.
If I were a smart woman, I'd walk away right now. Knowing how he made my carnal instincts erupt the last time we were in close contact is a giant red flag waving around in the air like a warning sign. But here I am walking into his room, approaching him like his nursemaid.
"Your arm is bleeding again?" He glances over his shoulder at my question and grunts out a response.
"I was loading bags into the car and caught it on the door frame." He doesn't sound particularly concerned about the blood dripping onto his floor. "It's fine."
"It's not fine if it's bleeding like that." I move closer to him and reach for the tissues on his desk. "Let me see it."
Fyodor scowls but he moves his hand away, and I can see where the shallow cut has torn open along one edge. It's not serious, but it needs to be cleaned and bandaged again if he's going to keep using that arm for heavy lifting. I grab the vodka bottle from where it sits on his desk and pour some onto the tissues, then reach up to press them against the wound.
My hands tremble when I make contact with his skin, and I pray he doesn't notice how my fingers shake or how my breathing has gone shallow. This close to him, I can see every detail of the tattoos covering his arms and shoulders, the definition in his chest and abdomen, thick, corded muscles he's probably worked on in the gym.
My mouth goes dry, and I have to force myself to focus on cleaning the wound instead of staring at his body, but dammit, it's difficult. I'm a single woman, and I haven't dated a man seriously in years. Fyodor is a good-looking man. If he weren't a monster, I'd consider this normal, but I'm his hostage. It's not supposed to turn me on to care for him like this.
"You're checking me out again." He chuckles, and I feel heat flood my face.
"I'm cleaning your wound." I keep my eyes fixed on the cut even though I can feel him watching me.
"You can do both at the same time, apparently." He shifts slightly, flexing the muscles in his chest just like he did the other day. He's doing it on purpose, trying to get a rise out of me, and dammit if it's not working. "There's more to enjoy if you'd like to look properly instead of stealing glances."
The words make my face burn even hotter, and I nearly drop the tissues. "I'm not—I wasn't?—"
"You were." He's definitely smiling now. I can hear it in his voice even though I refuse to look up at his face. "You've been staring at me since you walked in here."
"You're injured and bleeding. Where else am I supposed to look?" The defense sounds weak even to my own ears.
"You could look at the wound you're supposedly cleaning instead of my chest." His hand comes up to tilt my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "But you're not doing that, are you?"
I pull away from his touch and step back, pressing the tissues into his hand. "Here. Clean it yourself if you're going to make this uncomfortable."
"I'm not making anything uncomfortable. I'm just acknowledging what we both know is happening here." He presses the tissues against his arm without breaking eye contact. "You're attracted to me, and you don't want to be."
"I'm not—that's not…" I can't seem to form a complete sentence, my brain refusing to cooperate while my body betrays me with flushed cheeks and quickened breathing.
"It's alright to admit it, Noemi." He takes a step toward me, and I take one back reflexively. "Being attracted to someone doesn't mean you approve of them or their choices. It just means you're human."
"Stop talking." I hold up my hand between us like it'll create some kind of barrier. "Just stop."
"Why? Because I'm saying things you don't want to hear?" He's still advancing slowly, and I'm running out of room to retreat. "Or because you're worried I might be right?"
