My lungs hitched, and a distressed breath escaped my lips. It rained harder, pinging off a nearby dumpster and soaking my skin. I hoped it concealed the wetness pooling in my eyes.

Why did he have to make this so hard? Was I the only one who could see we didn’t make sense?

“Why am I the only one being practical about this?”

“Because you’ve never been in this as deeply as me.” No emotion behind those words. Just cold hard fact. Though, a flicker of something passed through his eyes, something soft and soul-wrenching. Something I’d seen in my own before. Something unrequited.

“When I said this was new to me, I meant I can’t fucking think when it comes to you. I shouldn’t have said what I said, malyshka. The thought of someone touching you, taking you from me . . .” His gaze flashed with darkness. “It makes me feel fucking crazy.”

I shivered as icy rain trickled into my dress. The heat from his body touched my skin, as if I stood at the edges of a fire. I wanted to step closer, the fear I’d get burned pushed further and further away.

His thumb brushed my cheek. “I promise, I won’t ever say anything like that to you again.”

I sighed. “It’s more than that, Christian, and you know it.”

“We’ll figure the rest out. But I’m not letting you go.” His jaw clenched, eyes fierce. “I can’t.”

He meant what he said.

At least, for now.

A part of me knew this couldn’t end well.

But the urge to give in, to close the distance between us, to feel him against me, ached. It tore at every cell in my body, leaving something desperate behind. The idea of walking away, back to the cold, colorless life I’d lived before him made me feel sick.

A tear escaped, and he brushed it away with a thumb.

“I don’t know what biocoenosis is,” I said softly.

“You’re not missing out.”

“I can’t have intellectually stimulating conversations with you.”

“I was bored out of my mind.”

Last-ditch effort to save myself.

“There are plenty of women who could make you happier, Christian.”

“You’re the only one I want.”

Our eyes held each other’s, some thick and unknown feeling brewing between us. Consuming, like panic, and heavy, like need.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine. “Moya zvezdochka.”

“I think I’m getting the flu,” I breathed.

Once he realized I’d given in, he made a noise of satisfaction and kissed me deeply, slipping his tongue into my mouth.

I sighed and shivered.

Pulling back, he slipped his jacket off and put it on my shoulders. A memory came back, of the last time he’d done the same thing. The night he’d taken me to Ace’s after the shooting five years ago.

I didn’t know how I’d gotten here.

Walking down the sidewalk with this dirty fed’s jacket on my shoulders and his hand in mine.

But now I wondered just where I’d be if he had never been around.

I WAS SOAKING WET AND shivering when we got back to his apartment. He tugged me inside to the bathroom, where he undressed me down to the heels on my feet. The air sat heavy with some unnamed emotion between us, and somehow, both of us knew, saying a word would only congest it further.

Love might have been an annoying, elusive word I’d never understand, but I knew right then and there, I loved the feel of his hands on me, the complete attention he gave me as he washed my body and hair, as if I was the only woman he’d ever seen. As if I was perfect.

He slipped one of his undershirts over my head and then took me to bed, wrapping his arm around my waist. My limbs and eyes felt heavy with sleep, but the night had provoked a desperate need to feel him inside me. I shifted back against his erection, knowing he’d been hard before we even got in the shower.

He let out a tense breath, then grabbed my hip and stopped me.

“Go to sleep, malyshka.”

I wanted to know why he obviously wanted me and still denied me, but soon grew too tired to press it. I twisted around and fell asleep with my face in his chest and his hand in my hair.

The next few nights went similarly.

He asked me to stay and make him dinner before he left in the morning. I must have been an internal misogynist because I did. It didn’t take long to realize that, even as meticulously clean and organized as it was, I loved being in his space and having something to look forward to, like cooking for him.

What I didn’t love?

The fact he wouldn’t sleep with me.

Before the kissing and heavy petting could get too far, he’d pull away, and then I’d hear, “Go to sleep, malyshka. I’m tired.”

The man wasn’t tired. He slept an average of three hours a night. I’d usually wake up in the middle of the night to find him sitting at the kitchen island on his laptop or going through paperwork. He was so sexy at three in the morning I couldn’t resist sitting on his lap and kissing his mouth and neck until he grumbled in frustration and told me to go put my ass back in his bed.

The third night, I even crossed my arms and refused to come to bed with him. He chuckled, picked me up off the couch, and carried me to the bedroom.

I sighed in frustration, moaning, “I feel used,” while rolling over onto my side.

Amusement coated his tone. “How so?”

“You eat my dinner and then don’t fuck me afterward. It’s rude, Christian.”

He laughed. That warm, deep laugh that was too sexy to be angry with.

He usually went to the gym and showered before I even awoke. But a couple times, I woke up to use the bathroom and found him shaving at the sink.

“I have to pee,” I told him.

“Then pee.” He made no move to leave.

I hesitated.

I wasn’t modest about my bodily functions, but as I sat on the toilet and peed in front of Christian Allister, it felt so taboo it made me squirm. And it might have turned me on a little. His humored gaze slid to me as I finished my business, a stupid flush rising to my cheeks when I realized he could probably read my twisted thoughts on my face.

When I was done, I sat on the sink in front of him, placing my legs on either side of his. I leaned back on my hands, just looking at him and the steady strokes of the razor.

A corner of his lips lifted.

That was when I realized I loved to watch him shave.

He was shirtless, only wearing a pair of white briefs. My gaze settled on his tattoos, and I ran a finger across the rose on his chest.

“Tell me what this one means.”

His movements stilled for a second before resuming. I wished I could be in his head at that moment. To understand why he was so conflicted about sharing things with me.

“It means I turned eighteen in prison.”

I held in my surprise that he’d answered me without a fight and focused on tracing the rose with a finger. “When did you get out?”

“Nineteen.”

I was only nine when he’d first gone to prison, and fourteen when he’d been released. I’d never had a picturesque childhood, but I was beginning to believe this man’s was deeper and darker than I had ever imagined.

My fingers trailed lower to his ribs, to a tattoo I hadn’t noticed before. It was a constellation; I recognized the open-squared shape. I’d found it with a telescope before, all because of a single night on a terrace. Andromeda. It looked darker, fresher than the rest of his tattoos.