“You can, now, can you?” he echoes, disbelief all over his beautiful face.
Adamantly, I nod. It blurs everything. Not a great idea, oops.
I must look winded. He makes me feel it.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, and opens my bedroom door with the hand beneath my thighs.
My lips press to his cheek. His cologne smells delicious, warm, earthy, and masculine. I rub my face into the side of hisneck. He’s most soft, right here. It inspires another kiss, and another, all the way up to his jaw.
The very sight of his lips is an invitation. Like he can read my thoughts, his tongue sweeps over them, wetting them, tantalizing me.
“You’re ridiculous,” I sigh to him. “You’re so sexy, it hurts my feelings.”
I’m worried he hasn’t heard me. At least until he sets me down on my bed and sinks to his knees beside me. My hips lift of their own volition, ready to be disrobed. I’m ready this time. I want his head between my thighs. I could be so good for him. Then he’d say those words again, won’t he?
Good girl.
The only thing he pulls is the covers, and gestures for me to get in.
I blink up at him.
“I want a kiss,” I assert, tugging at his shirt.
Iosif is immovable. He looks pained. I look him over to check for any wounds I may have missed on his body. I know I’m a little tipsy, but I wouldn’t have missed something like that, would I?
He dispels my panic with a handful of words: “Not like this. I don’t want to just kiss you. And the things I want to do to you, I won’t when you won’t remember in the morning.”
I open my mouth, baffled. I’m certain forgetting him isn’t a possibility. Doesn’t he understand the imprint he leaves? Physical, metaphorical, spiritual?
But then his palm cups my cheek, and my head sinks into the warm cradle of his hand. My eyes flutter shut, like he’s pushed a button and I’m powering off now.
The last thing I know is his lips pressing against my temple.
The last thing I hear is, “My little lion girl.”
Chapter 17 - Iosif
We walk in through the doors, and Janella gravitates powerlessly toward the food.
Sunday brunch is just the hangover cure the doctor ordered.
Or, at least, the doctor would’ve ordered if she weren’t busy with the overzealous brunch menu. Weekly brunch had been Yulia’s idea—a can’t-miss Yuri production for the whole family, no matter how busy, to touch base.
I look over my family. Trifon is making train sounds and feeding his baby girl, Zinaida, some mush, while she flings it all over the place. Both of them are wearing matching grins—albeit hers is a gummier one. Miron and Nadya are squabbling so loudly that Darya keeps shushing them, nursing black coffee in her pristine teacup. Valentin has Gela pinned against the credenza, his lips at her ear, and her smacking at his chest, laughing, and trying not to spill the juice she’s trying to pour.
Janella slots right in.
It’s me who gets the run-of-the-mill wave.
With no preamble, she embraces whoever she comes across. One minute she’s here, helping Yulia with place settings. Next, she’s dropping a kiss against Leonid’s cheek and fist-bumping Miron.
My chest constricts as I watch her crouch beside the baby. It comes naturally to her to make funny faces to entertain Zinaida. The kid is thrilled, gurgling and reaching for her with those chubby hands.
In the time I’d stupidly spent avoiding her, shoving my siblings at her to bridge the gap so she wouldn’t notice, she’s gotten close to them. It’s clear on sight.
“She likes you better than me,” Trifon grouses, looking peeved. “I supplied the DNA, and she’s ready to trade me for you.”
Janella giggles, and the sweet, unguarded sound is cute enough to piss me off. “That DNA just includes good taste,” she says shyly.
