I hand the glass back. "That's hard to believe. There have to be better ways to stay warm than drinking alcohol."
He stills. His eyes meet mine, holding there. Somehow his blue eyes look darker now, heated and intense. It feels like the room got smaller, crowding us.
He tears his gaze away, looking down into the glass. "You're right,” he says quietly. “There are.”
The deep rumble of his voice makes my stomach flutter. Heat spreads across my skin, settling where it always does when I’m around him. Right between my legs.
This feeling isn’t from the sip of cognac. It’s all Roman, what he said and didn’t say. It’s about intimacy, something I want so badly to learn about and experience.
With him.
"Tell me," I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.
He sets the glass on the counter, edging closer to me. The back of his hand brushes my cheek, his rough knuckles grazing my skin before his thumb finds my jaw.
"Pchyolka," he murmurs. "You want to know everything."
The word sounds beautiful in his accent, his voice wrapping around each syllable. I don't know what it means but I love the way he says it, like I'm someone he cares about.
His gaze drops to my mouth and my legs tremble. My chest feels so tight, it hurts to breathe, but I don’t mind. Neither of us move, both wanting to lock this moment in time.
Roman wants me the way a man wants a woman. I know it. He leans closer, ever so slightly. My heartbeat drums inside my ears as I lean toward him, desperate to feel his lips on mine.
Then his hand drops. He steps back, picking up the glassand taking a long drink, his eyes on the cognac, no longer on me.
He's shutting himself off, pulling back behind whatever walls he's built around himself. The ones that prevent him from admitting he wants this.
The silence stretches between us, tense and uncomfortable. I draw in a breath, forcing my voice to stay calm, not betraying my feelings for him.
"Roman," I say softly.
He looks at me, his mask of detachment not firmly in place yet.
"What does that mean? The word you called me."
"Pchyolka?"
"Yes, that one.”
"Little bee."
"Oh. Do I look like a bee?"
The corner of his mouth lifts. "No. You’re very small, though” His gaze drifts over my face. “But you sting when you need to.” It lingers a bit longer. “And your skin…” he stops before saying, “It’s the same color as honey. That’s why the name fits. Nala sounds too American."
"I like my name."
"I do too.Pchyolka’s a nice name. I chose well."
I roll my eyes and point to his glass. "Can I try it again?"
His brow lifts as he hands it over. I take another sip. It still burns and it still tastes awful. I give it back, shaking my head. "Nope. I definitely don’t like it."
He chuckles. "You don’t need this."
In typical Roman fashion, the humor immediately drains from his face and eyes. “It’s late,” he says. His voice isn’t as firm as before, when he dismissed me last night. “You should go to bed.”
"Aren't you going to bed also?"
