There’s a bin next to the chair, maybe for blood or vomit when they torture their enemies. I dispose of the wipes in the bin.
“Now, Mink. I don’t have all night.”
Ignoring the accusation in the way he said my code name, I crouch down in front of the cases, flick open the clasps, and flip up the lids. One is filled with an assortment of wigs, moustaches, combs, and glue, and the other with makeup and brushes. How did he get these so fast? One look is enough to tell me these products are on the high end of the scale.
“Pick one,” he says.
I turn my attention back to him. “What?”
“Pick a guy.” His tone is mocking, but I don’t miss the anger running underneath. “Who are you going to turn me into?”
“I don’t remember them by heart. I’ll have to see their faces again.”
He gives me a piercing look as he fishes his phone from his pocket and flicks over the screen without breaking eye contact. Sweat forms on my forehead from the intensity of his stare. If I really disguised those men, I should be able to remember their features. I hold my breath, praying he won’t call me out on it.
He glances briefly at the screen before holding it up to my face.
I let out a silent breath of relief. Looking at him for permission, I lift a hand. He nods. I swipe a finger over the screen, running through the photos of the Delta Force men. I pause on the one with the beard and bushy eyebrows.
He turns the phone back to look at the image. “Ugly bastard.” Leaving the phone well out of my reach on the bench, he turns back to me with crossed arms. “What are you waiting for?”
“You’ll have to sit down.” He’s too tall for me to reach his face.
A little shock runs through me when he grips my hips. His gaze sharpens, as if he knows. He moves us around, reversing our positions, and lowers himself into the chair. Spreading his legs wide with a lazy movement, he pulls me between them.
“Do me, malyshka.”
I jerk inwardly at the nuanced meaning. Memories of us doing each other naked in his bed assault my mind, and a faint pulse of arousal starts beating in my belly.
Slowly leaning back with a predatory gleam in his eyes, Yan releases me to rest his arms in a deceptively casual pose on the armrests. I do the wise thing. I jump to create distance between us, rummaging through the contents of the makeup case. Grabbing a tray of cream-based foundations, I study them in the stark glow of the naked bulb.
“I need better light.”
“This is all you get.”
I select a color that corresponds to the darker skin tone of the bearded man and take a wedged sponge from its package. To reach his face, I have to step closer, my thighs brushing the insides of his legs. My body tightens with an uninvited sensation, one that sends heat to my core. I busy myself by dragging the sponge through the foundation, soaking up just enough of the cosmetic to spread it evenly over his cheek without creating a caked effect.
At the first swipe over the hollow of his cheek that emphasizes the stark lines of his high cheekbone and strong nose, my hand starts to shake. I have to lean closer to reach. Tilting back his head, he holds my gaze with the piercing interest of a lover, or maybe an animal on the hunt, as he offers his face like a canvas. It’s not the unconventional beauty of the canvas I focus on, but that he’s offering me anything at all. Men like Yan give nothing easily. Emotions? Never. I can forget about counting on his compassion to escape alive.
I scoop up more foundation, dabbing it onto the rough skin of his jaw. He shaved. By the smell of soap still clinging to him, he showered, too. I take a deep breath, but it’s useless. I can’t keep my hand steady. I freeze when he closes his legs the tiniest bit, squeezing my hips softly. My lower body starts to hum, and more heat pools in my abdomen. The notion of pending death only adds to the sensations, making my body feel more alive than ever. Every bolt of awareness that runs through me is amplified. When you’re hungry, food tastes extra good. When death is so real you can taste it in the back of your mouth, physical awareness is stronger. I’m powerless to control these impulses. As before, my body responds to him. My flesh doesn’t recognize that the man who gave it life is the same one who’ll take it away forever.
“Nervous?” he drawls.
Another nuanced question. He knows the answer. He can feel it in the unsteadiness of my hands. With his fine-tuned killer senses, he can probably hear the minute change of my breathing as my pulse quickens.
There’s no point in denying the truth. Biting my lip, I nod.
For some reason, my answer pleases him. He likes to make me nervous.
Keeping my gaze, he places his hands on my thighs, just below the hem of his shirt. His broad, calloused palms are abrasive on my skin, making my flesh contract. Measuring my reaction with his piercing, all-noticing stare, he slowly glides his hands up under the shirt until they rest on my naked ass.
My shiver is visible. Electric shocks run down my spine and up my legs to collide in the center. Like an invisible charge, the current explodes in my clit, making it swell with an instant ache. Watching me, reading me, he rubs his hands down the back of my thighs and up my inner legs. I pinch my knees together, trying to hide his effect on me, but he pushes them apart with little effort. At the seam of my folds, he stops. I hold my breath.
The lazy casualness of earlier is gone.
