“With you?” Oleg frowned. “Never.” He reached up and tucked away a piece of hair that had fallen from her twist. “You make me feel like an old man, volchitsa. I find myself thinking of coming home to you and sitting by the fire and reading books beside you rather than committing violence on the enemies of my people.”
She slid to the side, and Oleg wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Well, you can’t commit violence every night. That would become boring too.”
“An excellent point.”
Tatyana stared into the flames licking the wood in the hearth and felt the soothing flow of energy between them. Their mingled amnis was like a happy cat, purring as it traced over their skin.
She sighed. “What are we going to do?”
“This week?” Oleg asked. “We’re going to make use of this house, and I’m going to fuck you every night until we’re forced to return to our separate cities.”
She put her hand over his mouth, and he sank his fangs into the fleshy heel of her hand. “Stop being crude.”
“I’m not being crude—I’m being factual.” He lapped at the wound in her hand. “We should go upstairs unless you don’t mind the glass doors. Mika and the others won’t look.”
“No!” She laughed and pushed away from him. “I’m serious. What are we going to do?”
“About what?” Oleg looked at her. “Are you ready to tell the world that we are married? Are you ready for the inevitable questions from your people about where your loyalties lie?”
“No.”
Oleg stared at her and said nothing.
Tatyana sighed and stood up. “Okay, fine. We have six nights together, not counting the gala, because that will likely go until nearly dawn.” She held out her hand.
Oleg leaned back and spread his legs. She could already see his erection tenting the loose wool pants. “Are you asking me to fuck you?”
Tatyana rolled her eyes, then dropped to her knees and put her hands on his flesh, running her polished fingernails up the inside of his thighs—the most sensitive spot on his entire body—and leaned into him as she turned her face up to his.
“Lord Oleg Sokolov, knyaz of the Kievan Rus and immortal lord of fire, please would you make love to your wife?”
His lips were already red, and his fangs were gleaming in his mouth. “You will ruin me, little wolf.”
“Is that a no?”
He lifted his chin. “Tell me again.”
Oh, he was such a bastard. She knew exactly what he wanted to hear, which made her perversely reluctant to repeat it.
They had avoided words of love for five years, and Tatyana didn’t know why. Perhaps because the truth of their feelings lived in their blood. Perhaps they were both too stubborn.
But she had slipped, and he was never one to miss an opportunity.
She forced the words from her mouth. “I love you, Oleg Sokolov. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Yes.” He waited no longer, reaching for her and tossing her over his shoulder before he stood and walked to the wooden staircase in the center of the old farmhouse.
“And?” She was being obstinate. She knew he would not return the words.
“And now I will happily fuck my wife.” He slapped her bottom, turned his head to the side, and nipped at her hip with bared teeth as she laughed.
She laywith the bedsheets crumpled around her. Oleg had very definitely made good on his promise, and now he was licking up her body, tasting her at leisure and gently burning off the small hairs that covered her legs.
It was a ticklish sensation but one that Tatyana enjoyed as much as Oleg enjoyed performing the small, intimate task.
Immortal bodies moved at a slower pace, which meant she didn’t often need to trim her hair or shave her legs, but the single time that Oleg had seen her doing it—in the back of a caravan during kamvasa three years before—he had gotten a gleam in his eye.
“I think you enjoy it.” She watched the low, licking flames dance over the surface of her skin.
