D shakes his head, turning back to the stove. “Don’t be. You’re not wrong.”
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words. I should leave. This is getting too real, too fast. But my feet stay rooted to the spot.
“There was an old man at the camp,” D says suddenly, his voice low. “Worked in the kitchen. He taught me, before… everything. Used to be a chef back in the old country.”
I blink, thrown by this unexpected glimpse into his past. “Must’ve been one hell of a cook.”
D’s laugh is short, bitter. “He was. Only decent human in that hellhole. Shame I couldn’t inherit his talent for staying out of trouble.”
I snort. “Yeah, well, join the club.”
He turns, his eyes meeting mine. There’s something there. Recognition. Shared fucked-upness. It should scare the shit out of me. Send me running.
It doesn’t.
Fuck it.
I step closer. Grab his stupid thick neck. Pull him down.
Kiss him. Hard.
His lips are rough. Taste like danger. Like home.
I’m so screwed.
33
Wren
D’s lips crush against mine, hot and demanding. Fuck, it’s like a dam breaking. All that tension, that simmering heat—it explodes.
Shit, I should not want him this much. But I do.
So, I pull him closer.
My fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. He groans, the sound vibrating through my chest. His hands, rough and calloused, slide under the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt.When they find bare skin where panties should be, he breaks the kiss, eyes dark and wild.
“Blyat,” he mutters, voice gravelly. “You trying to kill me,devushka?”
I smirk, all bravado. “What’s wrong, big guy? Can’t handle a little surprise?”
His answering grin is pure sin. “Oh, I can handle you just fine.”
He dives back in, but this time it’s different. Slower. His lips move against mine with a deliberate intensity that makes my toes curl. His tongue traces the seam of my mouth, seeking entry. I grant it, meeting him stroke for stroke.
Fuck, he tastes good. Like the meal we just shared, like smoke and whiskey and something indefinably male. I find myself chasing that taste, wanting more.
The pot on the stove bubbles over, hissing as it hits the burner. Neither of us moves to turn it off.
D’s hands roam my body, leaving trails of heat in their wake. One palm cups my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping me.
“Like that,da?” he murmurs against my lips. “Want more?”
I nip at his lower lip in response. “Less talking, more action, old man.”
He chuckles, the sound dark and promising. “As you wish.”
His mouth leaves mine, trailing along my jaw. When he reaches my neck, he pauses, breath hot against my pulse point. Then he sucks, hard enough to mark.
