Page 49 of Beautiful Secrets

My eyes fly open, my chest suddenly tight. “When I do what?”

His eyes become hooded. “When you enjoy something so much, you lose yourself in it.”

Heat inches up my throat. I drop my eyes, and put my cup down again, embarrassed.

“I never gave you permission you stop,” Cole says, his voice dangerously low.

My eyes dart up, lock onto his.

“Go ahead,” he says, a smile touching his full lips. “Enjoy your coffee.”

So I do.

Because even in our short time together, I’ve realized that obeying Cole is so much more rewarding than fighting him.

18

Cole

Istill have my vices. Cigarettes. Coffee. Food is slowly working its way up the list, and is a strong contender for third place…but only since I met Mika.

Yesterday, my concierge sent up a platter of pastries and chocolates. Tiny morsels of deliciousness that Mika and I devoured while we watched Bruce Willis stunt his way through another series of explosions and gunfire.

It sounds gift card-cliche, but I swear they wouldn’t have tasted half as sweet if I hadn’t been watching Mika savoring her every bite from a foot away.

I’ve never met someone who enjoys food as much as she does. When I asked her if she’d never had a mini-danish before—she was literally drooling over it—she told me to eatkholodetsone day.

I Googled it this morning after I spoke with Dimitri.

The results were fascinating and horrifying.

My call with Mika’s father is still playing on repeat. Odd how his accent sets my teeth on edge, but Mika’s is like a post-coital cigarette.

I took the five mill.

Dimitri sounded…if not happy, then at least satisfied. I’m to take Mika through to a drop off point tomorrow.

Seems I’m no longer on the Vasiliev’s estate guest list. And no wonder—he probably thinks I’ll make off with another of his kids after dropping off Mika.

Taking travel into consideration, that means I have just under twenty-four hours left with my little Russian rabbit.

Although, now, five million pounds seems hardly a fair trade for her company.

Especially since she no longer has that hunted look in her eyes, like she hasn’t stopped trying to figure out an escape route.

I’m guessing the fact that I made her come has something to do with it.

Christ.

I shove that last thought out of my mind. I’m supposed to be keeping a clear head, but all I can think about is how spectacular she fucking tasted.

So much sweeter than any of that sugary shit we had last night.

Motherfucking ambrosia.

Then again, evenkholodetswould be fucking palatable after five years in Blackmoore.

So while there can definitely not be a repeat of last night, we do have some time to kill. There’s nothing wrong with talking, is there? And usually the more a woman talks, the less I want to fuck her.