But that’s what happens when you find the one.
It just fits.
“You made it,” he says, that same playful smirk on his lips.
“What are you grinning at?”
“I’ll have you know a Bratva boss doesn’t grin,” he says, striding across the room and standing close to me, and even if he doesn’t want to admit it, there’s definitely an impish quality about him.
He’s like the giant bear who, after long months spent hunting and eating, finally gets to settle into his cave, his home.
His warm, safe place of belonging.
And that’s me.
I’m where he belongs.
“Still,” I say. “You’re making me very suspicious, Artem.”
“I said I’d choose you an outfit.”
“Yes …”
“Well, follow me.”
He walks to one end of the kitchen and opens a pantry. I follow behind him, my eyes moving over the broadness of his back all by themselves, unable to stop consuming him for even a moment.
I feel my body fluttering and surging with hormones as my eyes drink him in, as my body screams at me, demanding to know why I’m not taking him, every hot inch of him, right this second.
He walks into the pantry and then steps out a moment later, holding a chef’s outfit in his hand, complete with the classic hat.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I say, a giggle escaping me. “This is my special outfit?”
“Yep,” he chuckles. “I know that cooking is your passion. I can see that every time you so much as talk about it. So I thought to myself … well, why not do something unconventional? Neither of us has been conventional up until now, have we? I thought we’d cook our own dinner. I must warn you, though, I’m not much of a chef.”
I stare at him as fireworks erupt in my chest and a smile spreads warmly across my face.
Of all the places I thought that sordid, horrid night could lead, I never dreamed here, this perfection.
His expression shifts.
“Or is that just ridiculously fucking lame?” he mutters.
“No,” I say quickly, throwing myself forward. “It’s an amazing idea. It’s perfect. It’s so us, you’re right.”
“I never thought I’d have an us,” he muses. “But I like the sound of that. Okay, so you better get changed.”
“What about you?”
He winks. “I’m just your student, Anna. You’re the chef here.”
“Is there anywhere for me to …”
“Don’t worry,” he says, clearly loving this, the cocky handsome magnetic man. “We’re not going to be interrupted, if that’s what you’re worried about. Feel free to get changed here.”
“With you watching me like a pervert? Leering?”
“Yes,” he growls. “With me watching you. I’ll try to keep the leering to a minimum, though.”
I laugh and snatch the outfit from him, holding it by the hanger, and then skip over to the refrigerator and open it. The industrial-strength air blasts me coolly, but the door serves as a makeshift modesty-saver.
“Wow,” Artem laughs grimly. “Is that really the game you’re going to play? You really think I’m that much of an animal that if I see you getting changed, I’ll lose control and fuck you here? You think I’ll be forced – by my own desire – to suck on those nipples of yours and imagine that milk is pouring out? To make you cream and shiver for me just by sucking on your nipples, eh?”
Shiver upon shiver is already moving through me at his words, my lust like a stick of dynamite that’s always lit, always ready to explode, when Artem is around.
“That’s not fair,” I say, pulling my T-shirt over my head and letting it drop onto the floor. “You can’t tease me.”
I hear the clip of his shoes against the floor as he hunts closer to the refrigerator.
“What’s not fair is that I can see your clothes under the door,” he says. “What’s not fair is that you’re teasing me and I can’t even remember why we’re here, now that you’re being so fucking playful. What’s not fair is that it took me forty-two years to find you.”
“Well, it sort of wouldn’t have worked before, would it?” I tease.
He laughs. “Yeah, you’ve got me there. I needed a woman. And you’re all woman.”
I unclip my bra and let it drop. Just beyond the door, Artem makes a shivering growling noise that lets me know that he’s seen it.
“Can you please explain to me why you need to take your bra off to wear a chef’s outfit?” he asks, his voice tight as though every nerve in him is willing him to tear the door off its hinges.
“I don’t,” I say. “But I do need to drive you crazy, and it seems to be working.”
“So you want to take control now, Anna? Is that it?”
My heart pounds.
My world – my old life, the person I used to be – screams at me to stop, to let him be in control, to not embarrass myself. The old Anna never would’ve thought of doing something like this, of presuming she was sexy enough to lead this sort of show.