He’s quiet for a second. “What do you want to do, Rose?”
I don’t know. I want to be in college. I want to pay my own bills. I want to be loved for myself, not for my father’s debt. I want to be kissed without feeling like I’m being traded. I want to be touched without feeling like I’m property. But I say none of those things.
“I want to be… me,” I say finally. “I want to be free to be Rosie, not Rose--the--Bratva--wife.”
He’s silent again, then nods. “I can’t give you freedom,” he says. “Not completely. I can’t undo the contract or the marriage. But I can give you… respect. Help you create a life where you don’t feel like a pawn.”
The sincerity of his words warms by body, and I exhale, the air shaky. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He takes a step closer. Then another.
The space between us shrinks, the air thickening. He reaches out, hesitates, then brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, the touch so light it’s almost unbearable.
My heart hammers, the sound loud in my ears. “What are you?—”
“Touching you,” he says, voice low, rough. “I’ve been wanting to touch you since I first saw you at that bar and wondered if your skin would feel as soft as it looked. Let me touch you.”
I’m trembling. “Okay,” I say, the word barely audible. “Touch me.”
He slides his hand from my cheek to my neck, and as his thumb brushes my jaw, the roughness of his skin sending shivers down my spine. I tilt my head, the movement involuntary, the way my body leans toward him, the way my chest rises, the way my breath hitches.
“Roza,” he murmurs, the word a low growl, the way he says it, like it’s a prayer, like it’s a threat. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m a little overwhelmed,” I admit, my voice small, shaky. “What doesrozamean?”
“It’s Russian for rose.” His hand slides down my back, and then under the edge of my tank top, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric. His fingers skim the curve of my spine, and I arch into him, gasping.
For a second, the world narrows to that one point of contact, the way my skin tingles, the way my breath hitches, the way my body says yes before my head has time to catch up.
His hand slides further up my back, pulling me closer. "Roza." My name on his lips sounds like both a warning and a prayer.
I answer by pressing my body closer to his.
He makes a low sound against my throat, half groan, half growl, and his mouth drags down the curve of my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point.
My head tips back and I stop caring about the hard edge of the counter digging into my hip, stop caring about anything except the heat of his body pressed flush against mine and the way his hands are moving, slow and deliberate.
His lips find my collarbone.
My fingers curl into his hair. "Alexei," I breathe.
"I know," he murmurs against my skin. "I know."
He doesn't know. But I let him keep going for another few seconds, because my body is a traitor and every nerve ending I own is lit up and screaming yes.
Then he shifts, his hand sliding into my pants and toward my front, the obvious intention of where this is heading suddenly very real.
“Wait." I grab his wrist. “I have to tell you something.”
He stops, and his forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath ragged, his whole body taut with the effort of stillness. “Tell me,” he growls.
I press my palm to his chest. His heartbeat is fast and hard under my hand, and something about knowing that, knowing I did that to him, makes me feel powerful.
But it doesn’t last long because I’m very inexperienced in this area. "I've never… I haven't done this. Any of it."
A long silence.
He lifts his head and looks at me. His eyes are so dark right now, the gray iris almost swallowed whole.
