Rough Exile

Chapter Fifteen

Itwasstrangebeing alone on the island with Ilya. Just the two of us. No chance of Bron walking in to give us shit if he found us doing something he didn’t approve of.

Ilya had bought some new movies when we were in Saint Petersburg, and we’d slowly been working our way through them, sprawled out on the TV room’s cozy couches.

“Do you think that man is wearing makeup?”

“Probably.” I glanced over at him.

He was leaning forward, studying the actor.

“There’s nothing wrong with men wearing makeup if they want to. In America, men do it all the time—they wear nail polish, too. Dresses. High heels.”

He glanced my way, grimacing.

“What?”

“I was going to say men don’t do that here, but I don’t know what people do in the big cities.”

We fell silent and kept watching.

There was a cushion between us—he’d put it there when we’d settled in, as though sitting right next to me was too much of a temptation. Did he think the pillow would be enough of a speed bump to slow down what we both knew was bound to happen?

I tried to concentrate on the movie, but being alone with Ilya made me hyperaware of his every shift in position. Eventually, though, I got drawn into the storyline and the real world faded into the background.

Something brushed my finger, and I looked down. My right hand was on the pillow between us as though it were an armrest. Ilya’s gaze was riveted to the screen, but he’d moved his hand closer to me, and his pinkie grazed mine.

I tried to pay attention to the movie. Was he initiating something against Bron’s rules? I’d thought I would have to seduce him.

We sat that way a long time—him seemingly oblivious to the fact that we were touching, while my entire focus had narrowed to the inch where our pinky fingers touched. His finger flexed against mine, and I thought he would pull away, but the tip of his finger ran over mine so gently, that for a moment I thought I’d imagined it. I glanced down again, making sure not to move my head. In the room’s dimness, the glow from the television made our hands look almost spotlighted—his rough hand next to my much smaller one, his finger stroking mine in long, delicate strokes.

Hell, leave it to Ilya to make grade-school-level flirting exciting. My cheeks tingled. No one had made me blush in years, but this stupid island and its two male inhabitants could tie me in knots and make even my thoughts stammer.

I kept waiting for him to make a move. My imagination ran away with me.

We progressed to hand-holding, his hand big and warm, making me feel weirdly safe. Men were dangerous—they’d always been dangerous to me, other than my father who hardly paid attention to me unless he thought I was slacking, and my brothers whom I still didn’t think of as grown men. Considering some things Ilya had done to me, and had watched Bron do to me, why did he make me feel safe?

Considering he’d told Bron he might keep me here against my will, I shouldn’t feel safe at all. The truth was, we both knew him better than that.

He casually flipped my hand palm up and traced the creases in my palm, the flex lines in my wrist, drew circles in my hand. It tickled, and the sensation made me squirm a little. How was a girl supposed to focus on a movie with a hot guy so patiently seducing her?

I dragged the pillow out from between us and threw it on the floor, then moved closer to him, pressing against his side until he had no choice but to put his arm around me. He sighed in satisfaction, like the true cuddle-slut I knew he was deep down. I rested my hand palm up on his thigh, and he took the hint, continuing his slow stroking. When my hand and arm were almost painfully sensitized right up to the elbow, I pulled off my sloppy old T-shirt, not missing the sharp look he gave me.

Not allowed, Delilah.

I ignored the silent warning, focusing instead on his intent gaze, inspecting every inch he could see, as though he’d never seen it before. I crawled over his lap, settling facedown across it, resting my breasts between his parted thighs.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

I looked up at him, and his gaze had darted to the door as though Bron might come in and catch us. He shifted under me in apparent discomfort.

“I’m not doing anything he’s told us we can’t do,” I said slyly.

“Your naked breasts are touching my leg.”

“You’re wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. Even if I was naked, there would still be a layer of clothing between us.”

“I don’t think it’s enough.”

“He’s not even here, Ilya. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“But that doesn’t mean we should break his rules.”

“I’ll put my shirt back on if you want me to, but his rules are stupid, and he only made them because he’s jealous. The whole reason I’m here is so you learn to act tough to impress your father—that’s not going to happen if you squeal in horror and hide your eyes every time a woman is innocently topless.” I sat up and grabbed my shirt. “I wanted you to do the thing you were doing to my hand, but on my back instead.”

There was a long pause, which included the movie, since he’d scrambled for the remote and was holding it like a comfort object.

“You’re half naked.”

“There’s nothing sexual about my back.”

“I…I very much disagree.”

“You don’t want to touch my back?”