I lick my lips. Heat floods my cheeks as I force my gaze upward, past where that black Henley stretches across his body like it’s painted on, outlining every ridge of those abs that could grate cheese, past a chest so defined I can see each muscle straining against the fabric, all the way up to his face.
Leonid looks like thunder and sex had a baby. A very angry, very hot Russian baby.
“About your, um…” I can’t help the giggle that escapes. “Your ass.” My head tilts sideways, hair falling across my face like a curtain. The movement throws off what little balance I have, and I slump sideways, sagging into a heap. “Son of a bitch!”
A hiss of steam draws my attention to the shower, where water sprays in three different directions from the ancient showerhead like a drunk sprinkler. When I look back, Leonid’s stepping away, his hands going to the waistband of those ruined sweats.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
He peels them down with the kind of efficiency that should not be this hot.
But it is.
It really, really is.
Every movement reveals another stretch of muscle, another patch of skin that makes my mouth water for reasons that have nothing to do with nausea.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt again because apparently, drunk-me is both horny and polite. “About the… you know.” I wave vaguely at his legs, which is a mistake because it draws my eyes right back to… everything.
The black Henley joins the sweats on the floor. I’m pretty sure I whimper. He’s just… everywhere. All muscle, tattoos, scars, and danger wrapped in skin that I want to lick like a fucking ice cream cone.
“Fuck… me.” The words slip out in a whisper before I can catch them.
His head snaps down, eyes locking with mine. The shower steam curls around him like some kind of pagan god of violence and sex, and the way he’s looking at me…
I swallow hard. Maybe I’m not as done with that toilet as I thought.
His jaw clenches—I can see the muscle jumping there from my spot on the cold tile floor, where my ass is probably going numb. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and I forget how to breathe. One smooth motion and they’re gone and—
Holy mother of…
I actually gasp. My drunk brain tries to reconcile what I’m seeing with what I remember from that night, but this, his cock is… Bigger. Harder. My mouth goes dry despite the steam filling the tiny bathroom.
“Up,” he growls, and suddenly, his hands are under my arms, lifting me like I weigh nothing. The room spins—or maybe that’s just me—as my back hits the cool tile wall.
His fingers find the clasp of my bra, and I arch instinctively, pressing against him as he works the delicate hooks. The lacepeels away from my skin, and the cooler air makes my nipples harden instantly. When I fall back against his chest, they drag against his hot skin, sending sparks straight between my legs.
“Blyat,” he mutters, and his cock is right there, hard and heavy between us. My back’s against the cold tile, but everything in front of me is burning hot—all muscle and scars and that thick length pressing against my stomach. I sway slightly, and his hands grip my hips harder, pinning me in place.
“Stay still,” he orders, but his voice has dropped an octave, dangerous. Even through the steam, I can see how his pupils have blown wide; his eyes are the color of aged rum, dark and potent, like a shot of liquid sin ready to corrupt me.
His fingers hook under the thin lace. One sharp tug and the panties tear like paper.
“You smell like a fucking distillery,” he growls.
I open my mouth to protest the destruction of perfectly good lingerie, but what comes out instead is— “hic.”
31
Clara
This is probably not what they meant by “take his breath away.”
I press my lips together, cheeks puffing out like a demented chipmunk as I try to hold back another hiccup. My eyes cross with the effort, and I can feel my nose scrunching. The hiccup builds anyway, making my whole body jerk against him.
“HIC!”
