“Anyway, are we good?” Mischa asked.
“We’re good.” She wanted to close the last few inches between them. Place a palm on his chest and feel his heartbeat—was it racing like hers? Or maybe she’d steal a kiss.
She stowed the impulses, and tugged her wrist free, ignoring the disappointment that spilled inside. “I’ll be upstairs.”
But walking away didn’t erase the memories of his kisses. His kindness. How drop-dead hot he looked with his shirt plastered to his chest.
If she didn’t figure out what she wanted, at least short term, it was going to be a long couple of months.
Chapter Ten
MISCHA FLEXED HIS FINGERS, rather than reaching for Ash a second time as she walked inside. Physically he wanted to finish what they’d started twice.
He had to remember this wasn’t a real relationship, but it was going to last more than the night. Blurring that line would be complicated if things went south.
Or led to the desire for something more.
He shook the random thought aside. Might as well get cleaned up.
In his room, he stripped down, and stepped in the shower. Near-scalding water seared over his neck and back, beating out muscles he hadn’t used that intensively in a long time. Who knew teaching could be as much work as the actual sport?
As his aches faded in the heat, images of Ash rushed back. His fantasy from the other night mingled with reality, adding her voice and scent and taste to thoughts of fucking her in the rain.
He dragged the tempting daydream away from the front of his mind, and boxed it up as best he could. If he was going to keep his composure around Ash, imagining her naked and writhing under him every chance he got wouldn’t help.
When he was done bathing, he dried off and pulled on a pair of sweat shorts. A T-shirt might be a good idea, too. He’d have to remember he wasn’t the only person in the house anymore. Not that he thought shirtless would be a problem, but he needed to figure out what set off Ash’s over-protective alarms.
Someone knocked, and he opened his bedroom door to Ash.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
“That’s never a good phrase to hear.” He kept his tone light and teasing.
She looked puzzled, then a smile slipped in. “I mean like actual talk. As in, we’re supposed to have known each other for months. The most private thing I know about you is that you like mushrooms and olives on your pizza.”
“Come on in.” He could do talking, and ignore the part of him that hoped it would lead to more. He sat on the edge of the bed. It would leave the chair free for her, if she was more comfortable there.
He couldn’t help a faint smile when she took the spot next to him, arm resting against his. “Thank you for the gifts. Again. I hope Kelly’s board wasn’t expensive.”
“It didn’t cost me anything. I guess parts, but I keep those around anyway.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide. “You made it? What about the artwork?”
“Airbrushed. By me.”
“You never fail to impress.” Awe lined her words. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” Most of the time he didn’t think about it. It was just something he did. Her admiration warmed him in a way he didn’t expect. “What kind of things do we want to know about each other?”
She screwed her face up in thought. “I already know you have good taste in classic music.”
“Classic?”
“Guns and Roses, Iron Maiden... Classic rock.”
“Come on. I grew up with that. CCR, Black Sabbath. But not GnR. Soundgarden. Greenday.”
“Nirvana. Mud Honey.”
He shifted on the mattress so he could see her. “So sexy.”
“What is?” She looked up at him through her lashes, pink spreading over her cheeks.
“Your appreciation for good music.” Intellect warred with libido. He wanted to kiss her blush toward flaming, but he shouldn’t. The inches between them were both too much and not enough.
“How long have you been boarding?” she asked.
“Forever. Since I was in junior high.”
“Did you train hard? Probably. If you won medals.”
It was a sterile line of questions. Not a lot of emotion or teasing behind them. That was good, right? “Not until I met Tristan. He pushed hard, I wanted to keep up.”
“The two of you are close.”
“He might as well be my brother. We’ve seen each other through a lot.” Okay, Tristan was definitely not a sexy topic. Better than baseball or a cold shower.
“It’s the same for me and Kelly. I guess, not quite, since she’s literally my sister, but... This’ll sound silly.”
Mischa was surprised she was offering any personal information, given how she’d steered away from it before, but he wasn’t going to stop her. “Tell me.”
She rubbed the inside of her left wrist against her thigh. “In a way she saved my life. That sounds bad, but... she gave me a reason until I found one of my own.” She drew in a shaky breath. “That’s super depressing. I’m sorry.”
“Never apologize for that.”
“I’m just, it’s not that I’m suicidal or anything, so nothing to worry about there.” Her words ran together.
That shifted to dark fast. Delving into depression reminded him of Victoria, which tugged another layer over his lust. Ash wasn’t anything like his ex, though. “Never apologize for thinking or feeling.”
A spike of discomfort rolled through him, and he winced and stretched his neck.
“Let me.” She crawled on the bed until she was behind him.
When she dug her fingers into his shoulder he let out a long groan. “Don’t stop.”
She giggled, and it was enough to obliterate any of the clouds settling in. “It’s probably not as good one-handed.”
“Eh. Some of my favorite things happen one-handed.”
She rested her forehead against his neck, her breath when she laughed heating him. “You mean that exactly like it sounds.”
“I do.”
“Is it going to be a problem?” she asked. “Hiring me and marrying me?” She stopped kneading his muscles, but didn’t pull her hand away.
The way she hopped topics sang to the part of his brain that appreciated a good tangent. It also made him wonder if she was trying to keep the topic away from anything intimate.
“Not really. I’m the boss. If I say you can do the job, I’m allowed to hire you. We don’t really answer to anyone.” Until it came to making bigger purchases or selling them. But that was a different story for a time when it wouldn’t ruin the pleasant bubble that surrounded them.
Mischa stood. This closeness was too tempting to ignore. He took a few steps back. When he looked at Ash, a shadow of hurt crossed her face, but it vanished quickly.
The impulse drove through him to sit again. Or lock the door, kneel in front of her, and finish what two kisses promised but never led to. The way she studied him, eyes sincere, lips shining from the way she flicked her tongue over them, flowed through his veins and ignited his lust.
He’d promised no obligation. If she were anyone else, he wouldn’t hesitate to nudge the boundaries of that statement. So why was he holding back with Ash?
Chapter Eleven
ASH WAS ENJOYING THIS getting to know each other thing. It was nice to just talk, and she got the impression Mischa wasn’t just doing it out of some sense of obligation or need to put on a good front around their relationship.
She was disappointed when he stood, but she liked watching him move, even something as simple as walking across the room. He had the grace of a panther. Sleek, composed, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. “Tell me more about you.” She was doing whatever she could to keep the conversation away from her. Every time she delved into her personal life, she slid toward boring or depressing, and she wasn’t in the mood for either tonight.
“That’s an open-ended question. I could skim over the important stuff, and dive ri
ght into the deep, but I might scare you off. Or I could skim the surface, talk about my favorite movies and foods, but then you’d feel like I was glossing over the real details.”
“I was thinking you’d tell me whatever came to mind first.”
He gave her a half smile and sat next to her again, close enough his knees touched hers. “You really don’t want that. Point me in a direction.”
Crap. She didn’t know what to say. “You could start with where your tattoos came from. Most have a story, don’t they?”
“Most do.” He stripped off his shirt, and tossed it aside.
She didn’t expect that, but there was no way she was complaining. His naked torso was a work of art in more ways than one. Splashes of vibrant color intertwined with more faded images, all decorating lines of definition that would have made one of Michelangelo’s statue’s envious. She clenched her hand to keep from tracing down the center of his chest, along his abs, and over the trail of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his shorts.
She forced her gaze back to his face and realized he was watching her study him, lazy grin fixed firmly in place.
He worked his hand under hers, loosening her fist, and loosely grasping her wrist. “This one right here”—he drew her finger along a sideways figure-eight—“is Ouroboros.”
On closer inspection she realized it wasn’t a simple line, it was an intricate dragon, the head eating its own tail. “I know that one. Eternity, or something, right?”
“Close enough. For me, it’s more like completeness. When one journey ends, another begins.”
The soft hint of accent was back in his voice. The rasp of Russian. It mingled with the heat of his skin against hers, blurring the world around them, and keeping her focus on him. “That’s all sorts of Zen.”
“I’m a Zen guy.” His voice was softer but more distinct. “Which one do you want to know about next?”
She didn’t think she could pick. Each was more stunning or unique than the design she saw before it, but underneath it all, she saw a jungle of scars. She dragged her thumb across a patch of paler skin on his right ribs. “How did you do this?”
He chuckled. “Bit it learning to slide on a rail about five feet higher than I should have been practicing on.” He took her hand again, and pulled her to her feet as he stood. “This one here was an exposed rebar stake on an abandoned building.” He intertwined his fingers with hers and trailed along a scar running down his side.
“And this one?” She followed one line to the next, dipping below the waist of his shorts.
He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, and held her hand in place, not letting her dip lower, but not pushing her away. “Appendix burst when I was seventeen.” His voice was strained.
When she looked up, he was watching her again, with an intensity she could drown in. Her brain stalled, and any words she had stuck in her throat.
He turned her hand over, and followed the crisscross of pale lines on the inside of her arm. Her gut dropped into her shoes. Another detail about her past that she wasn’t prepared to share.
He moved his thumb to her bottom lip instead, and her discomfort vanished beneath a surge of electricity. He pressed lightly on the corner of her mouth, on the mole that marred her smile. Her mom called it a beauty mark. Her father pointed out it was just an ugly brown spot. More self-doubt crept in, and she tried to pull away. He slid his hand to her neck, holding her tight, keeping his thumb in place.
“My grandmother used to tell me, Все разнообразие, вся прелесть, вся красота жизни слагается из тени и света.” The Russian rolled off his tongue like silk in a gentle breeze.
“It’s beautiful. What does it mean?” For all she knew, it was a grocery list. He could read her the freaking dictionary in Russian and she’d think it was stunning.
He raised her wrist, and brushed his lips over the crisscross of scars. “I used to think she’d made it up, but I discovered years after we left, that it’s Tolstoy. It means, All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.” He kissed the corner of her mouth so lightly, she wasn’t sure she felt it.
Her lips parted in a silent oh.
“In other words...” He nipped along the tender skin. “You’re made up of the good and the bad. Leave one behind, hide it, pretend it doesn’t exist, and you’re not you anymore.”
It was a poetic sentiment, but too simplistic to be considered words to live by. She wasn’t prepared to argue, though. Not with him kissing along her jaw, and that raspy hint of accent lining his words.
Having her past, her heart, her doubts and fears exposed wasn’t where she wanted to go. She was much more interested in pulling back to a superficial level. Ash dropped her hand back to follow the line of his appendix scar, then lower. Teasing his hot skin.
He growled against her neck, and it sent tingles of anticipation racing over her. “What are you doing?” A heavy warning hung in his question, but he didn’t push her away.
“Being too impatient to wait for my wedding night?” Being terrified. Why did she say that? She was less than eager for him to find out how inexperienced she was. But dipping below the elastic of his boxers, and the hum that rumbled in his chest with each touch, made it impossible for her to take the suggestion back.
Mischa nipped her skin. Her shoulder. Collarbone. The hollow at the base of her throat. “I don’t see any reason we have to wait.”
Ash balanced on a fine point between each delicious touch. Doubt stole her response, and her body refused to respond to her will, going rigid.
He pulled back to look her in the eye. “Unless you’d rather not?”
“I rather would.” The clumsy words tripped over her tongue. “That is, I don’t...” She couldn’t admit that.
“Don’t what?” He dragged his nose up the side of her neck, his breath warm and tempting.
Don’t want you to stop. “Don’t-know-what-I’m-doing,” she blurted out. “I’m not a virgin or anything, but I’m closer to that than experienced.”
“Best way to get better is practice.” He kissed her lightly, before laying a series of small nips along her bottom lip and steeling her breath. “And I’m always up for extra practice time.”
“I do like learning new things.”
He tugged the bottom of her shirt up, careful of her cast as he pulled it over her head. The way he trailed his gaze along her torso, lingering on her stomach then breasts, made her pulse throb under her skin.
He reached behind her to unsnap her bra, then dragged the straps down her arms, and tossed the garment aside. The attention was intoxicating, but she felt odd just standing there.
“What’s wrong?” He dragged his thumb over her protruding lower lip. When he drew the pad across her nipple, the damp trail cooled quickly in the air.
He lowered his head, and wrapped his lips around the swollen nub, flicking his tongue back and forth while he sucked.
She pulled in a sharp breath at the enticing sensation. “I don’t know what to do with my hands,” she managed between breaths.
He gently grasped her cast, and brushed his lips over her fingers where they peeked out. “Nothing with this one.” He traced down her other arm. Hand over hers, he dropped it to below his waist, and curved her fingers around his erection. “This is what you do to me,” he whispered against her cheek.
He was hot and hard through his sweat shorts. Moisture pooled between her legs, growing damper each time he ground against her touch.
Mischa returned his attention to her nipples, sucking and licking, while she caressed his length. This was good. Incredible even. She squirmed each time he flicked his tongue over sensitive skin.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against her breast.
More of everything. That wasn’t right though. “I don’t know.”
“You have an idea.”
“I want your hand between my legs.” It was e
asier to say than she expected.
He unzipped her jeans and pushed those and her panties to the ground. Air kissed her wet mound, and a flush rushed through her when she realized she stood naked and exposed in front of him.
It was enough to make her head spin, in a good way.
When he stepped closer again, she tugged the waist of his shorts down to his hips.
“No.” He knocked her hand away with a playful growl.
“Why not?”
“I want this to last, and for as hard as you make me, I can’t guarantee anything of the sort if you wrap your hand around my cock.”
She was searching for a clever comeback when he dipped his fingers between her legs. She gasped, and her hips bucked against his touch. It wasn’t like that when she played with herself. This was like sparks dancing over her skin.
He stroked along her slit, but didn’t enter her or touch the throbbing button that begged for attention.
“More,” she whimpered.
He kissed a line down the middle of her chest, past her belly button, and over her mound. He nudged her back to sit on the edge of the bed. The feeling of his lips against her inner thighs, and the scruff of barely-there beard, stole her breath, and erased any insecurity about the second set of pale white lines—scars from cutting—that hid between her legs.
When he plunged his tongue inside her, she cried out. She knotted her fingers in his hair, needing something to hold onto.
Her head swam, and she hovered on an edge of pleasure that was new and terrifying and exhilarating. His thumb pressed against her clit, but he eased off again as she rushed toward climax.
He applied weight again to her swollen sex, this time not letting up when she moaned. She bucked against his touch when she came, grinding into his face, needing to feel everything, until it was too much.
She jerked away with a sigh, and he rose up to look her in the eye. He moved to kiss her, and she hesitated at the shine on his lips and face, before she realized what she was doing.
Mischa placed a finger to her mouth, and she drew it in with her tongue.
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