Page 24

Unfortunately, if I act on every instinct I have where Ilya’s concerned, he’ll either stab me again or disappear completely.

So I have to take it slow. Well, as slow as I’m capable of.

I wait until his bedroom light goes out.

That may have resulted in nearly two hours of me standing outside like a devoted lunatic, but I’m not ashamed. Call it pathetic if you want. I’m perfectly aware, but can you blame me?

Ilya is the most beautiful specimen on this earth. I’m nearly certain someone sculpted him for me, so he has to be mine.

No.

He is mine.

He is just having a hard time understanding that.

The room is dim, not fully dark. One small lamp still burns low on the bedside table, throwing a pool of muted gold across the sheets and the edge of the rug. Enough light for me to see him properly.

He’s asleep on the bed. On his side, one arm folded under the pillow, the other tucked near his chest beneath the blanket.

I’d half hoped I’d arrive to catch a glimpse of bare skin, some expanse of him thrown carelessly across the sheets.

Instead, he’s covered from wrists to ankles even in his sleep, which I think is rude.

I move closer, slowly enough that even the mattress doesn’t protest when I sit on the edge of the bed.

I watch the smallest crease between his brows, as if some part of him remains prepared to be annoyed even unconscious.

I lift one hand and hover it over his face first. Not touching. Just tracing the shape of him through the air.

Then my fingers settle against him at last.

I smooth a strand of hair back, and he makes the tiniest movement toward the touch. My hand drifts lower, following the architecture of his face. Brow. Temple. Cheekbone. The line down to his jaw, until my thumb brushes lightly over his lower lip.

He exhales through parted lips.

I look at his mouth. Then, because I’m not a good person and no one involved here should still be expecting one, I press my thumb against his lip more firmly.

His mouth opens, and I slide my thumb inside.

He lets me.

Sleepily. Instinctively.

A quiet little miracle of bad boundaries.

His lips close around my thumb as I push in a little deeper, then draw back, then sink in again. I’m seconds away from ripping his clothes off and fucking his brains out. The thought of sliding inside him, of watching him take me, of feeling him go tight around me—I bet he’d be tight. I’d tear through—

No. Stop. I have to stop. Slow.

Just go slow. Don’t spook him.

I slide my thumb out slowly. His lips part around the loss, and saliva glistens in the lamplight.

I look at it, then put my thumb in my own mouth and lick it clean.

We can consider that a kiss.

I watch him a little longer after that, because leaving right away would feel abrupt, and I’m nothing if not committed to consistency in my deviance.