Even my tiredness recedes, leaving me jittery and high, as if I’d downed two liters of espresso.
I’m acutely aware of his gaze on me as I bring the cup to my lips and take a sip, suppressing a hiss at the scalding temperature of the water. I’m trying not to look at him, to just focus on my tea, but I can’t help staring at his hands as he reaches over and grabs a beer. His fingers are long and masculine, and though his nails are neatly groomed, the calluses on the edges of his thumbs belie the elegance of his appearance.
This is a man used to doing things with his hands.
Terrible, violent things.
A normal woman would be repulsed by the thought, but my heart hammers faster, and an aching pulse starts between my legs, my underwear dampening with liquid heat. The darkness in him calls to me, making me feel alive in a way I’ve never experienced before.
It’s as if like recognizes like, the wrongness in me craving the same in him.
Ilya picks up the remaining bottle, his hands thick and rough, with a few tattoos on the back. There’s no pretense in him, no attempt to hide what he is behind an elegant mask. “To new friends,” he says, clinking his bottle against his brother’s and then, more gently, against my cup of tea. I risk a glance at him, but catch Yan’s hard green gaze instead.
I quickly look away, but not before a betraying flush crawls up my neck and covers my face. “To new friends,” I repeat, staring into my cup as if I might see my fate written in the tea leaves. I’m not sure I want Yan to know about the effect he has on me—though he probably already does.
I’m not exactly at the top of my game tonight.
“Yes, to new friends,” Yan murmurs, his large hand landing on my knee to squeeze it lightly.
Startled, I look over at him and see him tipping back the beer, his strong throat working as he swallows. It’s a strangely sensual sight, and my insides clench as he lowers the bottle and meets my gaze, his eyes darkly intent as the hand on my knee moves a couple of inches up my thigh, closer to where I’m wet and aching.
Oh, God.
He knows.
He definitely knows.
“Ilya,” he says quietly, still holding my gaze. “Make us a couple of sandwiches, will you? I think Mina here is hungry.”
“She is?” Ilya sounds confused as he stands up, and I look up to find him frowning at us—specifically, at my thigh, where Yan’s hand is resting so possessively. Slowly, tension permeates his big body, his hands flexing at his sides as his gaze swings to his brother’s face.
“I don’t think she’s hungry,” he bites out, his voice low and hard. His eyes cut to me. “Are you, Mina?”
I swallow thickly, unsure of what the right answer is. If I’m reading this right, Yan has just staked some sort of an exclusive claim on me, one that I would reinforce if I admitted to this made-up hunger.
Is that what I want?
To send away the brother who’s been nice to me, so I can be alone with the man who proposed dumping my body in the river?
“A… a sandwich would be nice.” The words don’t seem to belong to me, yet it’s my voice saying them, even as my brain scrambles to figure out the implications. “That is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Ilya’s mouth thins. “Fine. I’ll see what we have in the fridge.”
And turning around, he stalks off, leaving me on the couch with his brother.
4
Yan
I turn to Mina, my heart pounding with dark triumph. I was almost certain I’d read her correctly, but now I know for sure.
She wants me.
She wants this.
Her blue eyes are wary as I take the cup from her hand and set it down on the coffee table, then clasp her hand and stand up, pulling her to her feet. Her palm is small and clammy in my grasp, shaking slightly. She really is nervous, this strange girl who’s willing to sleep with a man who kidnapped and threatened to kill her.
“Come with me.” Somehow, my voice is cool and steady, even as my blood burns with the need to possess her, to throw her down on the couch and fuck her right here and now, Ilya’s nearness be damned.
“C-come where?”
Instead of a reply, I lead her to my bedroom, ignoring the hesitation obvious in her halting stride. Pulling her into the room, I shut the door behind us, and turn the lock for good measure.
Then I face her.
Her pale face is flushed with a delicate peach color, her lips parted as she stares up at me. “Are you…” She moistens her lower lip. “Are you going to kill me? Afterward?”
A dark smile tugs at my lips. “What do you think?”
She swallows. “I’m not sure.”
“Yet you’re here. Why?”
She doesn’t reply, but her color heightens, answering me as clearly as if she’d spoken the words.
She’s here because she wants me.
Because she feels this hunger, too.
I’ve been hard from the moment I laid my hand on her knee and saw her pupils dilate in response, but the need that’s pounding through me now is almost violent in nature, savage and uncontrolled. I like pretty things, and she’s pretty all right, but this is so much more. I’ve never wanted a woman this much, have never known a craving so consuming. I was going to toy with her, to prolong the delicious anticipation of this moment, but my hands reach for her of their own accord, pulling her toward me as I bend my head and claim her lips
