My awed croak makes her lift her big green eyes to my face. Rather than well-deserved confidence beaming from her face, what I see is far more crippling to my already detonated will-power-naked adoration. She’s looking up at me like she thinks belongs on her knees at my feet, giving me the best blowjob of my life. Like worshipping my cock was a gift to her, not a punishment.
The guilt that soaks through me is crippling. Not just for my betrayal of Alyona’s memory but for toying with Natasha. She doesn’t deserve this.
I shove my cock back in my jeans and zip them, taking a step back. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have-” I break off, shaking my head. “I didn’t mean to do that.” I back toward the door, unable to avert my gaze from the disaster I made, based on the horrified expression on Natasha’s face. “I’m sorry, it was a mistake.”
Natasha
What. The actual. Fuck?
I hear the front door close and then the Land Rover start up. Seriously? Dima’s literally running away right now?
My face burns as I find my way to my feet and rearrange the stupid cocktail dress back down my hips. My ass tingles and smarts from Dima palm, and that part still makes my tummy flip flop with excitement.
I’ve never orgasmed from being fingered before, and that was singularly the most erotic sexual experience I’ve ever had. Not that I have all that much sexual experience-I still live with my mom, after all.
I stand there, stunned, rewinding and reviewing our encounter. He thought it was a mistake.
Why?
What about getting some obviously much-needed sexual relief from me could be a mistake. Unless…
There was someone else.
But how could there be? I’ve never seen him with a woman. He rooms alone in the penthouse suite. Did he leave a woman back in Russia? Maybe he can’t go back because he’s wanted there.
It would explain why he treats me like a wicked temptation-something he wants but can’t have. Someone he borderline-resents for attracting him.
I’m not yours to tempt.
For some reason, the thin gold band he wears on his pinky finger floats up in my mind, and my stomach twists. Call it women’s intuition. A gut instinct-whatever.
I suddenly know that it was given to him by her. Whomever she is.
And I hate her for being the one who holds his heart.
Anger toward Dima bubbles up, and I stomp into the kitchen to clean up the pancakes. I throw the ones I’d saved for Dima into the trash. He can damn well fend for himself. Going into an angry cleaning frenzy, I scrub the kitchen until it’s spotless, not that it wasn’t clean before I cooked breakfast.
Then I head upstairs and take a shower.
Of course, I still don’t have any clothes to change into, a fact that is really starting to irritate me. Why couldn’t I get stuck in a cabin in a pair of yoga pants and a comfy t-shirt? Why did it have to be a body-hugging cocktail dress that restricts my movements and breathing?
I put the damn thing back on and stomp downstairs. I’m really out of temper now.
I’m usually the pleaser in any group-the one trying to make sure everyone’s comfortable and happy, but after being humiliated by Dima, anger is my go-to. It’s either that or cry, and I’m not going to give him that satisfaction.
I check on Nikolai again. He’d been sleeping when I finished cleaning the kitchen, but he’s awake now.
I bring him a glass of water with a straw and hold it to his mouth, so he can sip.
“Are you hungry at all? The doctor said you could have broth or juice today and soft foods starting tomorrow.”
“Nyet.”
“Okay, tell me when you are. Should I bring a television in here or something?”
“Nah. I’m going to sleep some more. After you tell me what happened.”
“Pardon me?” I pick up the pressure cuff and arrange it around his arm, watching the dial
“What did Dima do?”
I hate that my face gets hot. It’s impossible for a redhead to hide a blush. “Nothing,” I snap, the memory of what we’d done turning my core molten again. I shove the erotic thoughts away and bury them under my anger. “He left. I don’t know where he went.” I write the blood pressure down on the piece of paper the vet gave me then take Nikolai’s temperature.
“Was he a mudak?” Nikolai asks as I beam the scanner at his forehead.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Total dick.” His temperature isn’t elevated, so I don’t write it down. I turn away from Nikolai, fidgeting with the equipment.
I could ask Nikolai about the other woman. About the ring.
“Um… does Dima have a girlfriend?”
“No. Definitely not.”
Huh. I turn. “Why definitely not?”
Nikolai closes his lids, his head falling back on the pillow. “That’s Dima’s story to tell,” he says.
Gah. “So he is unavailable?”
Nikolai’s gaze is musing. “Is that what he told you?”
“More or less.”
Nikolai shakes his head. “Fucker.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” I’m not usually bold or pushy, but I feel like I’m hanging onto my sanity by a string here. I have to fight to regain some equilibrium.
“I guess he thinks he is,” Nikolai mumbles. His lids are drifting closed.
I sigh and watch him as he drifts into sleep. And then I have no idea what to do with myself. I go over to make up the other side of the bed-where Dima slept.
Like an idiot, I lower my face to his pillow and breathe in his clean masculine scent.
Nikolai doesn’t stir. Seeing him there, so pale, his clothes cut away for the surgery, the remaining tatters still a crusty, bloody mess, his hands swollen with fluid retention from the IV, I’m shaken by another wave of guilt. Of fear.
What if Nikolai dies? If I’m responsible for costing Dima the one person he loves most in the world? I hate that I was so gullible. That Alex used me to do this.