My fingers move on their own, tracing the outline of my name over his heart—the ink I've touched a thousand times before, the tattoo he got without asking, the one that made me cry and call him an idiot for two hours straight. Then I see them. The new ones. On his collarbones, above the other tattoos he had—eight-pointed stars, black ink, sharp geometric lines, symmetrical and deliberate. The Bratva stars. Evidence of everything he told me last night.
My fingers travel up to touch the left one gently, and his hand closes around mine instantly, stopping me. My eyes snap to his face. He's awake now, smiling slightly.
"Morning, babe," he says, his voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," I whisper back, and he leans in to press a kiss to my forehead—soft, lingering, achingly gentle—beforestanding up. Six-foot-five of lean muscle and ink unfolds from my bed like something out of a fever dream I've had every night for two years.
"Gonna make you coffee," he says, pulling on his jeans and nothing else, just denim hanging low on his hips, exposing that perfect V of muscle that disappears below the waistband. Naked from the waist up with every tattoo on full display, the ring still on his index finger, the chain bracelet catching the early light. "Rest until I put the heater on—it's cold."
How is he so damn sexy? He catches me staring and smiles wider. "See something you like, babe?"
"Get out," I mutter, and he laughs as he walks out smiling, closing the door behind him.
And then—for reasons I can't explain and will never admit to—I stand up, walk to the mirror, and freeze. "Mother of god…" An atrocity. My hair is a rat's nest, dark circles under my eyes like I've been punched, lips swollen, skin pale. I look like I've been dragged through hell backward. He liked this? He had sex with me looking like this? Damn. I look like shit.
I grab my hairbrush and start attacking the tangles with frantic motions, but it doesn't help, just makes it fluffier and wilder. Makeup—I need makeup. I yank open the drawer and grab my makeup bag, dabbing concealer under my eyes with shaking hands, but somehow it makes the dark circles look worse. More concealer, blend harder, and now I look like a corpse wearing makeup. Foundation makes it even worse—too much, way too much, now I look like I'm wearing a mask.
The door opens, and I shove the makeup behind my back, spinning to face him and trying to look casual.
Drogo stops in the doorway and looks at me, amused. "You look beautiful. Every second of the day."
He crosses to me and lifts me up before I can protest, carrying me out of the bedroom like I weigh nothing.
"I can walk, you know," I mutter.
"The floor is cold." He nods at my bare feet.
"You're barefoot too."
"I don’t matter," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple as he carries me to the kitchen and sets me down at the table where—my sandwich. Raw tuna and avocado cut into triangles exactly how I like it. And coffee. Black. Perfect.
I stare at it, then at him. He just smiles and sits across from me. "Eat."
I take a bite. It's perfect. Of course it's perfect. We eat in silence for a moment—comfortable, strange, surreal. Then he stands up and walks around the table to me, his expression shifting into something darker, hungrier.
"Open your legs, Alena," he says quietly, and my breath catches.
"What?"
"You heard me. Open. Your. Legs."
I should say no. Should push him away. Should remind him that we still have things to talk about, guards posted outside, a life to figure out. But instead, I find myself spreading my thighs slowly, watching his eyes darken as he drops to his knees in front of me.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and his hands slide up my—now—bare thighs since he took my pants off so fast I didn’t realize, pushing the oversized t-shirt I'm wearing higher until he can see I'm not wearing anything underneath. He groans low in his throat. "Fuck, babe. You're going to kill me."
He leans in and presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then another, working his way up slowly, teasingly, his stubble scraping against my sensitive skin and making me shiver. Hishands grip my hips and pull me to the edge of the chair, spreading me wider, positioning me exactly how he wants me.
"Drogo—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"I've been dreaming about this for two years," he says against my thigh. "About tasting you again. About making you come on my tongue. Let me have this, babe. Please."
Then his mouth is on me, and I forget how to breathe. His tongue drags up my center slowly, tasting, exploring, like he's savouring every second. He groans against me—deep and satisfied—and the vibration makes my hips jerk.
"Fuck," he breathes. "I missed this. Missed you. The way you taste, the sounds you make—" He licks me again, firmer this time, his tongue circling my clit before sucking it into his mouth.
I gasp and my hands fly to his hair, gripping tight. He moans in approval and does it again, alternating between long, slow licks and focused attention on my clit, building the pressure steadily. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise, holding me open and still while he devours me like a man starving.
He pushes one finger inside me, then two, curling them to hit that spot deep inside while his tongue works my clit relentlessly. I'm already close, embarrassingly close, my body responding to him like it's been waiting for this, for him, for two years of loneliness to finally end.
