His hot breath fans over my nape. “Does it?”
“It sounds as if you mean forever, like locking the princess in the tower kind of forever.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to deny the silly deduction, but he says, “I would’ve preferred you didn’t run away in the first place.”
Tensing more, I whisper, “You know why I didn’t want to see you.”
“And I explained why running the background check on you was necessary.”
I turn in his arms to face him, the recollection assaulting me anew. I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten about that. Maybe I suppressed it because I don’t want to acknowledge the truth: that the man in front of me is not someone I should trust.
He must see something on my face because he says, “I apologized for running that background check on you more than once, but I’ll apologize again if it makes you feel better.” He adds in a softer tone, “I thought we moved past this.”
He’s right. I can’t continue to harp on something he’s repeatedly apologized for. Yet I still feel a little bitter over the invasion of privacy and the perceived betrayal, no matter how much sense it logically makes. “I suppose then it’s a good thing you didn’t find anything dubious in the information you dug up about me.”
His expression darkens as determination laces his tone. “Either way, it wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“No?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Like I told you before, I would’ve made you mine no matter what I found.”
With that heavy declaration, he plants a tender kiss on my forehead. “Go to sleep. I’ve worn you out.”
19
Soft shaking pulls me from a deep sleep. I open my eyes, feeling groggy and sore, and then I smile as I remember why I’m hurting inside and out. Alex woke me up twice in the night, but the climaxes he brought me to make my tiredness and aching body worth every second.
The man responsible for my worn-out state is standing next to the bed with a glass in one hand, gently stroking my bare shoulder. He’s dressed in tailored gray pants and a black open-neck shirt, looking unfairly fresh, handsome, and alert.
“Wake up, Katyusha,” he says in a sexy, deep grumble that makes my insides clench despite how bruised they feel. His tone turns regretful. “It’s time to get ready for work.”
Groaning, I sit up and rub my eyes. The curtains are already pulled open. The room is basked in the soft light of early morning, the weak sunbeams filtering through the window.
“Here.” He holds out the glass, which contains a fizzy orange liquid.
Automatically reaching for it, I ask, “What is this?”
“Vitamin C.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. “You need the boost this morning. I don’t want you to get sick because I didn’t let you rest enough and made you go out in the cold to work when you’re overtired. We’ll catch a full night’s sleep tonight, I promise.”
I raise a brow. “We will?”
He takes my hand and brushes a thumb over my knuckles. “I thought you’d welcome a break from my advances. I’m sure you must be tender, no?”
I blush like a teenager, heat crawling over my cheeks at the accurate yet somewhat clinical observation. “I wasn’t referring to having more sex. I was asking if we’re spending another night together.” At the darkening of his expression, I add, “So soon. I’m sure you’re a busy man with a hectic schedule.”
“Of course we are,” he says a tad too forcefully. “Would you prefer we sleep over at your place?”
I want to argue that we don’t have to sleep over at each other’s every night, but the challenge in his gaze tells me he’s up for a fight and determined to get his way. It’s not that I don’t want to sleep in his arms and benefit from his incredible skills and super-hot body every night. I just don’t want to put him under any kind of pressure. For a man who’s never been into dating, our newfound relationship is moving pretty fast—if it can even be called a relationship. Is that the label for a prolonged one-night stand?
I might be back together with Alex, but I still don’t know where I stand.
Instead of making a big deal out of it, I say, “No, we don’t have to sleep over at my place. Here is fine.” It’s certainly more comfortable than my tiny studio and twin bed.
“Good,” he says, approval lighting up his eyes. “I’ll let you get ready. Breakfast will be waiting downstairs when you’re done. I got Yuri to fetch your clothes from your apartment.” Getting to his feet, he adds with a smile, “I hope you don’t mind.”
He hopes I don’t mind? He mentioned it like an afterthought, as if the statement carries no weight. The fact that he has a key to my apartment and sent his driver to go through my closet and personal belongings doesn’t strike him as another invasion of my privacy.