“Kiss me,” Slava says.
"What?"
"Kiss me." His fingers tighten slightly on my nape, sending hot sparks down my spine. "If you’re not obsessed with me, then you can kiss me and walk away."
"You’re out of your mind."
"Are you afraid you'll lose?"
The dare lands exactly where he intends, and we stare at each other in the sticky evening breeze.
"Do your fucking worst," I whisper, as butterflies roil my stomach.
"One day,malyshka," he says softly as heat, hunger, and deadly satisfaction flash across his handsome face. "You'll regret those words."
He leans in. But I’m the one who closes the gap.
The kiss is light, quick, and for all intents and purposes, chaste. Our lips barely touch. The contact is nothing more than a brief brush that it’s almost not there.
And yet, it still sets every inch of me on fire, igniting me from head to toe. It races through my veins, makes me forget how to breathe, and sends my head spinning. My fingers curl into fists at my sides because if I don't anchor them, they're going to reach for him.
And if I touch him, I'm never going to stop.
A moan climbs to my throat. I swallow it back before he hears and the only thing in my mind is that his lips are soft.
But then I feel it. There’s a slight pressure of response—a microsecond where he keeps his lips on mine. And I do something reckless. I let my tongue dart out to feather his lips, and give myself a taste of what a real kiss from him might feel like before I pull away, breathless and wide-eyed at the realization of what I’ve done.
I force myself to regain my composure, reach for the version of me that lied her way into his life, and look him straight in his winter-gray eyes. "See? Nothing."
The silence stretches between us. He's reading me. I can feel him looking for cracks, for tells, for any sign that the lie is what it is.
His hand slides away from my neck.
No.The protest rises up instinctively, and I shove it down so hard it leaves bruises.
He picks up the drink he set down earlier, and takes a sip. "If you say so."
Then he walks away, and I turn back to face the city as the sound of the gala crescendos when Slava opens the door, and then dims again when it closes behind him.
I reach for the remaining drink on the railing with shaking hands because I need something to hold.
My fingers are clumsy and the drink topples off the railing.
See? Nothing.
I can still taste him on my lips.
13
SLAVA
The glassin my hand holds nothing but water now.
I finished it a long time ago, and the ice has long since melted. The last guest left almost twenty minutes ago, and I’m standing here watching the event staff cleaning up.
I still haven’t managed to put this glass down.
I can't.
