No island. No Brotherhood. No hundreds of women and children behind concrete walls. No clan of mysterious immortals. No phone to steal, no surveillance to neutralize, no plan so absurd that it belonged in a movie.
There was only this room, this bed, and Dimitri.
She sat on the edge of the mattress and watched him go through his nightly routine. The mask he'd worn all day went into the trash bin, and his shirt went into the laundry basket, the fluid motion making the muscles of his back shift beneath his skin.
He was unfairly beautiful, and not just since turning immortal. She'd thought so from the first time she'd seen him in the bar, when he'd walked in with Petrov and sat at a corner table, and she'd served them drinks while pretending not to notice the way his eyes tracked her movements.
She'd known he was different than the others before she'd exchanged any words with him. The gaze in the eyes that hadtracked her hadn't been possessive, entitled, or even carnal in nature. It had been curious. Interested.
When they'd later sat in the staff kitchen, he'd held her hand across the table and told her that she was beautiful with such quiet conviction that she'd believed him.
He still looked at her like that every moment of every day, but tonight, she was hoping for a little more carnality and possessiveness, which she would have found offensive the first time they'd met.
When he dropped his pants and stood with nothing on but boxer briefs, her thoughts turned definitely lustful, but then he reached for his pajama bottoms and pulled them on far too swiftly.
Dimitri had promised to make love to her tonight, so why was he bothering with his pajama pants? But then he turned to face her, and the look in his eyes made her breath hitch.
His eyes were full of need, raw and intense, held in check by a restraint that was beginning to show cracks. His gaze roamed over the T-shirt that she wore as a nightgown, her bare legs that were folded beneath her on the mattress, and the bandaged hand that was resting on the pillow. She saw the hunger surging and then retreating when his eyes landed on the splint.
At least the wince wasn't about her legs.
She was sitting on the bed and wearing only his T-shirt, her scarred legs on full display, and Dimitri was wincing about her splinted hand, not the twisted skin. The scars had defined her lifestyle choices. She had avoided shorts, skirts, swimwear and intimacy for far too many years, allowing them to define the boundaries of her self-worth, and now Dimitri had changedeverything. They were invisible to him. He had accepted her scars and all. He believed she was still beautiful and worthy of love.
She would never get tired of that.
Dimitri ran his fingers through his hair. "I've been thinking about this," he said.
"All day, I hope."
"Most of it." The corner of his mouth twitched. "In between the revelations about secret immortal clans and debates about Morse code using smoke signals, yes."
"I'm flattered that making love to me made the priority list."
"You are the priority list. Everything else is context." He sat on the bed beside her, and the mattress dipped under his weight, tilting her toward him. He didn't seem to notice. "The constraint is your hand. Any position that puts weight on it, applies stress to it, or risks sudden movement is out. Anything where you might instinctively brace yourself is also out, because in the moment, you'll forget about the injury and grab something with both hands, and then we're back to square one."
"I have some self-control, Dimitri."
"You don't, and neither do I. Not when we get carried away. When things get intense, self-control is the first casualty, and your hand will be the second."
He had a point, and she hated that he was right.
"So, what's the solution, Dr. Volkov?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, which was a different tell from the hair. The hair meant he was stuck. The neck meant he had the answer but was either not sure about it or embarrassed by it.
"The safest position for your hand is with you flat on your back and not moving. Your right arm will be supported on a pillow, away from any contact."
Mattie grinned. "Sounds good to me. Nothing wrong with the good old missionary position."
He rubbed his neck harder. "I wasn't talking about missionary. I meant my head between your legs."
The grin froze on her face, but not because she was unhappy about his offer. On the contrary, it electrified her. She schooled her expression into a semblance of thoughtful consideration.
"Oh," she said. "Well. That's an acceptable proposition."
He smiled. "Just acceptable?"
"Yes, but only if it's reciprocal." She held his gaze. "A sixty-nine is also a classic. You on top, me on the bottom. My hand stays elevated on the pillow with no weight on it. Problem solved. We can also do it on our sides, but I like the first option better."
