“Who?” I acted innocent, closing the cufflink in my palm. It burned.

“You know who.”

My gaze narrowed on her, though, with a sigh, I gave in. “Last night.”

“I knew it!” Her eyes sparkled. “I knew there was something between you and Christian.”

“If something is sex, sure.”

“I think I would pay money for those details.”

“How much you got on you?” I joked, just as a knock sounded at the door. With a sigh, because I already knew who it was, I went to open it.

Nico stood there, practically glowering at me.

I grinned. “Oh, you made it just in time for the party! I was just about to let the male hooker out of the closet.”

He rolled his eyes and walked past me toward his wife, who stood by the couch looking guilty.

“Been calling you for an hour, Elena.”

She chewed her cheek. “I might have misplaced my phone.”

“Missed you,” he rasped against her hair, pulling her close.

Feeling like I was intruding on something, I went to clean up the kitchen.

“What’s for dinner?” Nico asked a few moments later, while Elena searched the place for her phone.

“Fried towel served with a side of half-cooked pasta.”

“Huh.” He rubbed his jaw and sat at the kitchen island, amusement playing in his eyes.

I turned the burner on to finish cooking the pasta and started chopping the tomatoes for the sauce.

“My wife likes you,” he said, voice low.

“Not surprising,” I said. “I’m a very likeable person.”

“She might have been brought up in this life, but she didn’t grow up like you and I, Gianna. She’s not . . .”

Damaged? Desensitized? Unsympathetic? Was there a word for all of them?

“Cold?”

He nodded, like he couldn’t find the right word either. “I’m asking you to remember that when you spend time with her.”

“You’re asking me? Why, Ace, did you hit your head on the overhang on the way in?”

“Sometimes feels like it,” I thought I heard him say, as he glanced at Elena with a volatile and vulnerable look in his eyes. I suddenly feared for anyone who dared to touch a hair on her head.

And then that feeling came back—that confusing feeling that had eluded me for eight years. Longing. Longing to be the subject of a look that intense. A look full of something so raw and vehement it could make anyone a believer.

That night, after the three of us had watched Channel 7 in Spanish and ate dinner in silence, I lay in bed unable to sleep. I was . . . perturbed. I was alive. My skin lit up like the noises and lights at a carnival.

The cards I’d been dealt would never line up just right for love, but if there was anything close to what it would feel like to be the subject of that look, I knew where to find it.

A ray of light from the crack in the bathroom door fanned across the room, spotlighting the cufflink I’d set on my vanity.

He only had sex with the same woman three times.

I still had one more time, didn’t I?

I got to my feet, grabbed the cufflink, and headed to the front door. I was only wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of thigh-high socks, but my destination was just on the other side of the hall.

Instead of knocking, I tried the handle. It was unlocked. I heard his voice, deep and rich and Russian, before I pushed it all the way open.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, his phone to his ear. His gaze lifted to me and narrowed, before dropping, touching the curves of my body and settling on my bare thighs. I inhaled a cold breath while my skin burned hot. I’d never known another man who could throw me off-balance with a single look. I’d resented it for so long—because it was him who made me feel this way—but now, due to a temporary bout of insanity, I was sure, I only wanted more of it.

He responded to something on the phone in his heathen language, his eyes following me as I walked toward him and set his cufflink on the kitchen island. And then I stepped closer. Close enough I had to look up to meet his gaze.

“I changed my mind,” I whispered.

He raised a brow.

Stretching up on my toes, I skimmed my lips across his ear, and breathed, “I volunteer.”

I watched his face as he searched for the meaning behind those two words, from a conversation we’d had eight years ago. The moment I saw dark understanding flicker across his expression, I dropped to my knees at his feet. Heat flared in his gaze.

I rubbed my cheek against his length that already seemed to be hard and thick. He ran a hand across his mouth, rumbling out some rough Russian words. The bastard wasn’t even giving me his full attention, but, apparently, my body didn’t need it, because anticipation still danced down my spine at the idea of what I would do.

I could feel his gaze on me as I worked on his belt buckle. The gentle clang of it falling open sent a shiver through me. As soon as I had his pants undone, I wrapped my hand around his shaft and licked him from base to tip. He pulled in a strained breath, but he didn’t let it out. He didn’t make a sound as he watched me with eyes that had grown dark and hazy.

I laved him with my tongue, making breathy noises of approval like it was the only passion I had in life. And it was starting to feel like it. Heat bloomed in my stomach, moving lower, in a wave that made me squeeze my thighs together to ease the ache. His hand tightened on his phone, the tension in him building to a crescendo I was dying to see fall.

“Da,” he said to whoever he was speaking to, sounding annoyed. “Ya slyshal vas.”

I ran my tongue across his crown and then finally slid him deep into my mouth, bringing my half-lidded, lust-filled gaze up to his.

“Fuck.” He threw his phone to the side and then grasped my face between two rough hands, caressing my cheek with a thumb like I was something special, something precious.

It momentarily stilled me. A raw wave of warmth flickered in my chest. It wasn’t until later I realized that was the moment the first wisps of devotion settled in and my downfall began.

“Voz’mi menya glubzhe,” he rasped.

He held my face and slowly slid in deeper. My eyes watered, and I couldn’t breathe whenever he reached my throat, but I remained still and let him fuck my mouth. Because I wanted him to use me however he wanted. Because I wanted to be everything he needed.

“Where can I come, malyshka?” he asked. “Your mouth?”

I blinked up at him in acquiesce.

His groan rumbled from low in his throat, turning into a hoarse sound when he finished in my mouth. I swallowed and licked my lips, my skin growing hot under the heat of his stare. I now understood why women dropped to their knees without expecting anything in return, because, as humbling as the act might seem, nothing felt more empowering than bringing a man like this to the edge of control.

“Takaya krasivaya,” he breathed, running a thumb across my bottom lip.

I wanted to ask him what it meant but stopped myself before the question could escape. I didn’t want to know. I was sure tonight would be the end of us, as soon as I became just another third, and I knew those two words would only strengthen the attachment I seemed to be building for him.

He pulled his briefs over his softening erection and buttoned his pants. A small squeal escaped me when he suddenly lifted me by the backs of the thighs and dropped me on the island. An unexpected rush of nerves hit me. I’d been naked in his apartment once before—it hadn’t left me feeling good in the end.