Page 46

“Tough.” In the silence that follows, I sketch the sharp line of his jaw, aching to touch it, avoiding his eyes to give him time to consider his answer.

“I’m Roman’s head of security,” he says finally.

It’s a good answer. It’s also not really an answer.

He pours two more shots and hands one to me. We clink glasses and down the shots. When Dimitry lowers his glass, he’s grinning wickedly. “Dip that paintbrush in some water and pass it to me.” He nods at a new brush still in its packet, resting on a side table next to a jar of clean water.

Eyeing him warily, I do as he says, then duck away when he tries to take my hand, shaking my charcoal at him. “One shot, one command, muscle boy. And you have to stay still.”

Dimitry waves the paintbrush back and forth in aremonstrative gesture. “I agreed to model for you, Skippy, not take your orders. Now, question time.”

I cast my eyes skyward. “Go on, then.”

He points the paintbrush at a small, round scar beneath my rib cage. “How did you get that scar?”

Actually, I got that when Rodrigo Cardeñas was drunk one night and thought it would be fun to hold me down and show off to his bros by holding a lit cigar against my ribs.

I swallow, drawing a shaky line and trying to keep my tone light. “I thought you said scar stories were boring.”

“Mine are.” Dimitry’s eyes are like lasers on my skin. “Yours are not.” Something about the quiet, lethal way he says it makes me shiver. It also makes my nipples harden and brings a fierce rush of heat between my legs.

What the fuck is wrong with me?I should be repulsed by the unspoken threat in his voice.

Only I’m not.

“Hm.” His voice is a low rumble in his chest. “Something I said, Skippy?”

When I glance at him, his cock is hard as the bedpost, his eyes on my nipples dark with lust.

Fuck.This is going to be harder than I thought. Then again, I’m going to ask him the same questions. And there’s no way he’ll answer honestly if I don’t.

I clear my throat. “The scar is a cigar burn.”

Dimitry’s harsh cough of laughter is entirely without humor. “Oh, I knowwhatit is, Skip. I asked how you got it.”

Oh, the low, dangerous way he asks the question.

The way every muscle in his body is taut, like a growling predator just waiting to be let off the leash.

It’s really fucking hard to lie when I’m naked and he’s so close. And something tells me he’ll know anyway, the minute I try it.

“I got it from someone who thought burning people with his cigar was a fun drinking game.”

Something very dangerous flashes in Dimitry’s eyes. He pours two glasses and gives me one. His hand clasps briefly around mine, solid and reassuring.

I stare down at our joined hands, unable to look at him, my heart thudding rapidly.

His thumb rubs back and forth over my hand slowly until, finally, my rapid heartbeat begins to calm again.

Dimitry raises the paintbrush. Very slowly, he twirls the damp feathery tip of it around my nipple, and I cry out involuntarily. He teases the hard point until I’m gasping, then shifts to the other nipple and repeats the process. I’m moaning, the vodka still in my hand, charcoal in the other, unable to think about anything except the exquisite sensation. Then the brush disappears, and my eyes fly open to find Dimitry staring at me, his eyes dark as slate, his pounding shaft rearing up to his flat navel. “Drink,” he commands hoarsely.

I do, my legs trembling, every cell in my body pulsing with need.

“Ask your fucking question.” His eyes are locked between my legs. I can feel myself swelling under their touch as if his hands were on me.

“Your scars.” My mouth is dry, my voice rasping. I nod at the many silver lines and puckered holes which mark his own body. “What caused those, Dimitry?”

I force my shaking hand to sketch the broad wall of his torso, almost feeling the scars on the paper as I bring him to life.