“When did you get this one?”

Instead of answering me, he kissed me, lightly nipping my bottom lip. Breathless heat burned beneath my skin, because that was the only answer I needed.

“How do you know so much about the stars?” I asked.

“I read. A lot. There wasn’t much else to do in prison.”

“You remember everything you read, don’t you?”

“Mostly.”

No wonder he’d mastered English so impeccably—heck, he knew it better than me. It was surreal to think this man had gained a lot of his knowledge from books while locked up in some Russian prison. A part of me was curious about what he’d done to get imprisoned, but I’d never ask him. I’d learned a long time ago to stay out of a man’s business. If you didn’t know anything, you wouldn’t be lying if interrogated. Also, there were just some things about the men in this life a woman didn’t want to know.

“So, when did you come to the United States?”

“The day after I was released.”

I kissed his chest, looked up at him, and said light-heartedly, “I’m sure immigration loved getting your application.”

Amusement played in his eyes. “My record was clean, malyshka. I have a knack for technology. I could find out where the President is eating breakfast right now, take a picture, and anonymously post it on social media, all from my kitchen.”

My eyes widened. “Are you telling me, as long as I’m somewhere near a camera, you could find me and watch me on your computer?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t done it, have you?”

“That would be morally questionable.”

“Yes, it would,” I said pointedly.

A genius and a criminal rolled into one. It made a terrifying combination.

I decided not to question him further on that topic. “Didn’t you miss your family when you moved to another country?”

And just like that, I hit a brick wall.

His stomach tensed subtly beneath my hands, and his tone went cold. “I have to finish getting ready for work, malyshka.”

That was a dismissal if I’d ever heard one. Though, pleased with how far I’d gotten, I hopped down and went back to bed.

That night, I was so far past sexually frustrated, I decided to be a bit craftier. I wore the sexiest underwear I owned, a pair of knitted thigh-high socks, and nothing else. I was in the middle of making dinner when he came home. He stilled, his eyes going dark as they traveled over me.

He sat at the island, pulled off his tie, and narrowed his gaze.

I’d screwed up his routine.

The heat of his eyes followed me everywhere in the kitchen. I made sure to bend over slower and more often than necessary. If there was one battle I was going to win between us, it was this one.

We ate in companionable silence, but I couldn’t even taste the food because just the way he looked at me sent every nerve ending tingling beneath my skin. He helped me rinse off the dishes and clean up the kitchen. Then, he held my face and kissed me softly on the lips.

“Thank you for dinner, malyshka.”

That was when I knew I loved his soft side.

I sat on his lap, his hand playing with my hair, while we watched some political debate on CNN. I couldn’t even pretend to pay attention to a second of it with his hard-on pressed against my ass. A part of me knew what he was doing by denying me. I didn’t like it. Because it made my chest feel tight and heavy. And that unsettled me.

Somewhere between the beginning and the end, my legs had straddled his, my hands were in his hair, and my lips were parting his as I flicked my tongue into his mouth.

He groaned.

The kiss deepened, and I grinded against his erection. I was so turned-on my vision grew hazy, my blood burned, and I was sure I was getting his pants wet by rubbing against him.

“God, I want you,” I breathed into his mouth.

He made a tortured noise in his throat and pulled back. A thumb ran across my cheek, his eyes conflicted. “Say it again.”

I rocked my hips against him, desperation coating my words. “I want you so badly.”

“Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Because . . .” I sighed, searching for the reason and then just letting my first thought escape. “Because it’s always been you.”

I might not have ever realized it before, but as the words left my mouth, I knew I meant every one of them.

Satisfaction, dark and lazy, flared in his eyes. His lips pressed against my ear, his voice sending a shiver down my spine.

“You win, malyshka.”

I didn’t even get to experience the pleasure of my rare victory over him, because with a rip of my panties, he pushed inside me so deeply it tore a gasp from my throat. I dug my nails into his shoulders.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he breathed.

By now, I’d gotten used to the way he fucked—so hard and unforgiving. Slightly selfish yet somehow still attentive. As he carried me to the bedroom, holding me tightly, still deep inside me, he stopped to kiss me for a full minute on the way, and I knew I loved it. The sex was fast and rough, but afterward, he made up for it with his head between my legs until I was begging him to stop.

The next evening, while waiting to cross the street, I got a text from an unknown number.

My dinner is late.

Schoolgirl giddiness filled me at the fact he was texting me, even though I’d let him hold me down and screw the lights out of me last night.

Me: I’m sorry, who is this?

Christian: Funny.

Me: Todd?

Christian: I’m going to spank your ass.

Me: Promise?

Soon after that exchange, I found him sitting on the couch with some papers on the coffee table before him. I ran my hands down his chest, flashing him my new sparkly crimson nails.

“What do you think?”

“I love them, malyshka.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.

That was when I decided I loved having this man’s approval, no matter how confusing his position in my life may be.

The next day, he came home, paused, then picked up the “Russian for Dummies” book sitting on the coffee table. He raised a brow at me.

I returned the look from my spot on the couch. “How else am I going to eavesdrop on all your phone calls, malysh?”

It was the male form of the endearment he called me. A half-smile pulled on his lips as he dropped the book back on the table.

I stood and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest. “I’ve been waiting for you to get home all day.”

He made a noise of contentment. “What are you doing to me?” His voice was serious and slightly accented. I loved that timbre so much I rose to my toes and tried to taste it on his lips.

As the next week passed, each day, I fell in love with something else. With his smell—the way it made my eyes half-lidded and my toes curl in satisfaction. With his hands—the way they made everything else go away. With his voice—the way it could be so rough and sweet at the same time.

I had practically moved in. My stuff was everywhere. Three bottles of lotion sat on the coffee table, and he hadn’t complained once about how they weren’t lined up neat in a row.

He didn’t like it, though, when I moved his stuff around. I’d hear a grumpy, “Gianna,” and something like, “There’s a reason I put my stuff where it is.” I was sure it was somewhere between crazy and nutso.