Page 45

“Hey.” I put my hands on his face, raising it so he’s looking at me. “We have to talk about this at some point, Dimitry.”

“Hm.” Although his mouth is still curved in a light smile, and his hands still ply my body to insanity, his gray eyes are shuttered as a steel blind. His hand slips lower, parting my legs, and I moan. “But do we, though?” The insistent way his finger slips inside me betrays just how much he doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“I have an idea... Oh,” I gasp, as his finger begins to stroke in the way that makes my mind leave the room.

“I have several,” Dimitry murmurs around my nipple.

“No.” I push him away with an effort and roll off the bed, trying not to look at the huge, pulsing evidence of just how much he wants me. I walk into the small lounge and bend down to retrieve the bottle of Graf vodka I bought online specially, after hearing him bemoan the fact that it’s hard to buy in Spain.

“I love the view, Skippy,” he calls from the bedroom, “but I like it better at close range.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself, and turn around, waving the bottle at him. His eyes widen and he sits up. “Graf? Seriously? How the fuck did you find that?”

I waggle the bottle. “You have no idea what I’m capable of, muscle boy.”

Dimitry pats the bed, grinning. “Well, you need to bring that bottle right here, along with that delicious ass of yours, so I can show you just whatI’mcapable of.” He props himself up on one elbow and beckons slyly.

“Ah.” I put two shot glasses down on the bedside table, dancing just out of reach of his tempting hand. “But there are rules to this drinking game.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Rules, huh? This sounds like fun.”

“Yup.” I nod, snatching up his phone and moving away before he can grasp me. “To start with, I’m turning this off.” I hit the power down button and wave the phone at him. “I have tonight off, and now so do you.”

“Abby. Give me that.” His tone is light, but the steel-gray shutters are down again.

“Nope.” I shake my head and reach for my easel. “I’m going to sketch you, muscle boy. Then I’m going to paint you. And while I do, we’re going to drink that Graf. Shot for shot.” I pour two glasses. “One shot for one question.” I twirl my charcoal at him. “If one of us doesn’t answer the question, we have to take an extra shot.”

Dimitry’s eyes narrow. “Modeling is definitely not my favored career choice. And I can think of much more fun drinking games than question time.”

“Tough.” I raise my glass, waiting.

After a moment, he sighs and lifts his own. “At least tell me there’s sex at the end of this game.”

“Oh, that’s a given.” I let my eyes linger on his still-hard cock, grappling with my own lust. “And besides, I’m going to stay naked while I sketch.”

“Better.” Brightening, Dimitry sits up on the pillows. “But I have some rules, too.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.”

He grins. “I don’t just want an answer to my questions. If you’re going to use and abuse me for your art, then I have to get a benefit of my own. So I’m adding in the right to give you a command with every shot as well as a question.”

It’s my turn to narrow my eyes. “What kind of commands are we talking about here, muscle boy?”

“Let’s see.” He tosses off his glass. “First command: you’re blocking my view with that easel. Move it so I can see you.”

I give a gurgle of laughter. “Fine.” I angle the easel so he has a clear view and reach for my glass.

“Not yet, Skippy.” Dimitry moves it out of reach. “First, my question.” He holds my eyes. “How long is it since you’ve been back to Australia?”

Oh, fuck.

“Straight for the jugular, huh?” I start sketching to avoid his scrutiny. “I haven’t been back to Australia since I left home.”

He snorts. “That’s not an answer.” He folds his arms, fixing me with an old-fashioned look that says he’s not going to put up with me fudging the question.

I grimace. “Fine. I left Australia six years ago. No,” I say, shaking my head as he opens his mouth to ask another question. “It’s my turn.” I down the vodka, starting to question my wisdom in suggesting this. “What’s your role in Roman Stevanovsky’s bratva clan?”

Dimitry’s mouth hardens. “I don’t like this game.”