Page 50

He bares his teeth at me, and it would be a smile if it didn’t look so much like a threat. "Liar."

So what if I do care? So what if I like the disguises because they feel like armor? So what if I like the fact that I can move from place to place without ever putting down roots—because when I do,ifI do, someone always comes along and rips them up again.

So what?

How does he flay me open without even trying?

And the scariest part?Why do I like it?

He leans in, one hand braced beside my head. His eyes are stormy and beautiful. My heart beats faster. I want him to touch me, and I don’t want him to be gentle.

He smells like vodka and soap. I lick my lips.

"Why do you think I’m not afraid of you running anymore?" he asks in a whisper.

The truth is, he should be.

He should be waiting for me to slip up, but instead, he watches me.

The air between us snaps like electricity.

I roll my eyes to hopefully hide my reaction to my pounding heartbeat. "Because you know how to track me."

He touches my chin, tracing the line of it. My breath hitches for a second.

"Yeah, little ghost. But we both know that’s not the truth. Not all of it anyway, is it?"

He’s just as fucked up about me as I am about him.

He’s supposed to hate me. Even his parents hinted at that.

I can’t look away. I can’t stop myself. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, dragging him to me. His body presses up against mine, and I crave being closer, connected. Flesh against flesh, mouth against mouth, tongues tangled. Because I’ve never been more attracted to someone in my life.

I don’t know what the hell that says about me.

His hands skate down my sides, rough and possessive, leaving a trail of heat behind.

"How long is the wash cycle?" I whisper.

His low, dark chuckle makes my nipples harden. "Long enough."

I sigh and close my eyes as his lips meet mine.

His kiss isn’t soft—too much wanting, too much need. His hands fist in my messy hair, keeping my mouth locked to his, and I feel it…I feel it.

The way he’s holding back.

The way his control slips through his fingers like sand.

Fuck it. I want to make himlosecontrol. I want to see exactly what happens when Matvei Kopolov snaps.

"The tour," I tell him. "You going to finish giving me the tour?"

“Right.”

I feel a giggle bubbling up because—god help me—he’s kind of cute when he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“So this is the laundry room. Down the hall are some guestrooms, and upstairs is the bedroom. Our bedroom,” he says in a rush of words.