It was like he'd unlocked something. Every day, the first thing he did when he saw me was bind me to him.
"Kirill, put me down. I'm packing—"
"Anna can handle the luggage. I don't pay dozens of people to watch you kneel on the carpet folding cashmere."
He buried his face in the crook of my neck, the bridge of his nose brushing the sensitive skin behind my ear. He inhaled deeply, his warm breath ghosting over my pulse point and sending shivers racing down my spine.
"Besides," his voice came out muffled, touched with exhaustion, "I haven't seen you all day."
He was complaining. The mafia godfather was complaining to his wife about being neglected.
It made me want to laugh, even as something sickeningly sweet bubbled up inside me.
"I just wanted to help you organize some of your scattered clothes."
"I think you have more important duties right now." He deposited me on the bed, nipping at my neck just hard enough to draw out a low moan, then pulled out a pristine white box stamped with the gold logo of Manhattan's most famous French patisserie.
"Picked it up on Fifth Avenue," he said flatly, like it was nothing.
But I knew that shop. The most pretentious bakery in all of NewYork, where their signature lemon tarts sold out by three every afternoon. Getting one usually meant standing in line for two hours.
"For me?"
"Who else in this house likes things sour enough to strip enamel? Olga?"
I pictured Olga eating a lemon tart and nearly laughed out loud. The old-school aristocrat believed any bold, sharp flavor was an assault on the palate. She only drank tea and ate scones as bland as clouds.
I opened the box. A single lemon tart sat inside, crafted like a work of art, smelling impossibly fresh.
I picked it up but didn't bring it to my own mouth.
"Want to try?" I looked into his eyes, pulse quickening. I never would have dared this before.
Kirill paused. He glanced down at the yellow pastry, brow furrowing slightly—he hated sweets, hated anything sour even more. Olga had mentioned that once.
But I wanted to see. Maybe he'd break his own rules for me.
He met my gaze, then opened his mouth and bit off most of the tart.
His lips grazed my fingertips, tongue accidentally brushing my finger pad with a warm, wet touch. The sensation shot straight up my arm and down my spine like electricity.
"Just this once," he muttered.
"Good?"
He didn't answer. He swallowed, then suddenly leaned in and caged me against the mattress, hands braced on either side of my body.
"Too sour." His voice came out rough. "I need something sweet to balance it out."
Then he sealed my mouth with his.
Lemon zest, cream, and the sharp burn of liquor from his mouth exploded on my tongue. He kissed me deep, like he wanted to devour me whole.
His palm slid down my spine, rough calluses draggingagainst silk pajamas in a way that turned my limbs to water. Finally, his hand pressed hard against the small of my back, crushing me against him.
"Mmm..." I couldn't breathe, fingers weakly clutching at his shirt.
My face burned. My heart was about to leap from my chest. Even though we'd already been intimate, even though he'd acknowledged what I was to him, I still couldn't get used to this intensity.
