I go through the motions of putting myself together for the day. My hands dress me in thick, camel-colored slacks and a maroon turtleneck. Instinctively battling the perpetual flush that refuses to leave my skin now. My damp hair is cool against the overheated nape of my neck.
Making my way to the dining area, I decide to forgo the tea today.
When my gaze lands on Iosif, already at the dining table, I wish I’d forgone breakfast altogether.
I trip over my own feet.
He’s in a turtleneck of his own this morning. The charcoal wool makes his eyes look lighter than usual. His hair is damp, too.
It isn’t fair. He’s breathtaking.
“Good morning, wife,” he greets, casual and conversational.
“Hi,” I squeak out.
His brows raise as I stumble toward and drop into a seat. I don’t think he misses that it’s the one farthest away from him. He never looks away from me, staring through Oksana, who is setting my usual cup of tea in front of me without being asked. When I mumble my thanks, it’s through a mouth full of cotton.
I just won’t look up, okay? I won’t look at him, and then he won’t see it on my face. He won’t see my sinful obsession mirrored in my eyes.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks politely.
Startled, I drop the fork, shoveling scrambled eggs. “Great, yes! You?” We both watch it clatter across the floor. I can’t breathe. My skin is on fire. My knees ache from the pressure of my thighs pressing together. My cunt is so tight and hot that it almost hurts. I feel exposed.
Iosif says nothing.
The weight of his attention is anything but light.
All it does is remind me of how he looked at me hours ago. Like I was the center of the universe.
I can’t stop imagining it. My wretched mind distorts reality, twisting and turning, remodeling memory until it is my hand instead of his. My touch causes the muscles in his stomach to tighten, then flutter. His erratic breath—those maddening, hungry moans—warming my cheeks while I give to him.
In my head, I give and give and give.
“Janella.”
Automatically, my head snaps up.
I don’t understand the look on his face. I’ve never seen it before, but I could swear it looks like guilt.
“That was fucked up,” he says with a grimace. “Last night.”
He can see everything on my face. Of course he can.
Oh God. I want to burst into flames.
Hastily, I blurt out, “We don’t have to talk about this!”
His expression hardens.
“Yes, we do,” he insists. “I’m sorry. I had no right to put you in that position. I made you uncomfortable. I never want to make you feel like you owe me anything. You don’t.”
“I don’t think that! It’s—”
“It’s not fine.” His tone lashes like a whip. “It was fucked up. I’m sorry.”
Nothing about his words brooks any argument.
With a sinking heart, I shrug. “Okay.”
