Page 80 of Kept in the Dark

“Anna Kareninais your favorite?” she repeats, brows shooting up. “It’s so…”

“Poignant? Thought-provoking? Classic?”

“Russian,” she finishes with a laugh.

“True enough,” I allow, feeling my own smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Though I would hope that simply being Russian is not a cause for dismissal.”

She hears the drop in my tone, and her body reacts instantly to the implied meaning of my words. I watch as her nipples harden through the brightly colored spandex, and I upgrade my earlier approval of her new clothes. There is a strip of flesh above her waist visible to me that is a few shades paler than the rest of her skin. It makes me want to peel off all her coverings to find all her tan lines and trace them with my tongue.

“Definitely not,” she says, and her eyes drag down the length of my shirt, which suddenly feels too constricting. “I can think of several admirable Russian traits. Your people are… proud, resilient, and have a dry, dark sense of humor.”

“Hmm,” I muse, watching her chew on her bottom lip. “Then you must have a little Russian in you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she cries, turning away and shaking her head at me.

I frown, taken aback by this abrupt change in tone. Perhaps I should not be surprised, since I often make errors in my speech. But when it is with James or Wesley, I never let it concern me very much. “What did I say?” I ask.

She must see that my confusion is genuine, because her smile shifts. “Sorry. I thought you were going to… Sorry. It’s just that that’s the beginning of a particularly bad sexual innuendo.”

“What is?”

“It’s like, ‘Do you have a little Russian in you? No? Do you want some?’ or something like that.”

“I do not… oh,” I say as understanding dawns. Then, I blow out a breath through my nose in amusement. “I would never say this. My cock is not little.”

There is a choked, surprised sound, then she laughs. She flushes a charming shade of dark red, covers her eyes with her hands, and groans. “That one’s on me—I dug the hole and jumped right in.”

The sound of her laughter wraps around my chest and squeezes. My eyes follow her as she crosses over to the couch and grabs one of the plastic-film bags with something black inside. Giving it a tug, she pulls it apart easily and assesses the pants that unroll in her hands. She glances up when she senses that I am watching.

“This was too generous, I think,” she mutters, voice low.

I was caught up memorizing the shape of her body and the curve of her ass when she bent over the couch, so it takes me a few seconds to respond. “It is common in my country for a man to show his respect by dressing his woman and giving her gifts.”

I expect a minor rebuff for my statement, but instead her eyes become hazy and her nipples harden against her bra once more. “Well, I suppose if it’s a custom from another culture, it would be poor form not to accept,” she says, swallowing.

Our eyes catch and we remain locked like that, staring, until she breaks first and adjusts her hold on the new pants in a way that presses her breasts together and emphasizes the deep line of her cleavage.

Vixen. She knows what she does.

I need to leave before the sexual tension becomes so heavy that I fold under it.

But I do not. Because I cannot. Instead, I search for more to say—to keep her engaged and focused on me. I love the feeling of her honey gaze.

“I am pleased that you are filling your days. I have been concerned that you might be bored here, or perhaps homesick,” I add, though I regret the words as I speak them. If she is, I do not wish to call attention to it, and if she is not, I do not wish to remind her that she could be.

“Can’t be homesick for a place you never called home,” she counters with a tight smile. “And as for being bored, no. I admit I miss my phone and the mindless scroll occasionally, but I realized yesterday that this is the first time I’ve taken a vacation where I wasn’t being tugged back into work a hundred times—helping a coworker, answering a question about paperwork, stupid small things that add up and make you feel like you never got all the way away from it. Not being reachable isn’t something I’ve ever let myself be—it’s almost peaceful.

“Of course, it would be more relaxing if I didn’t have the Russian mafia after me and I weren’t a missing person. Speaking of which, has there been any change to my case?”

“The police discovered your glasses at the marina, but the boat was lost to them as evidence. They are following the false trail Wesley created.”

She chews on her bottom lip. “How long will that hold them off? Long enough for me to, ya know, get back to my normal life?”

Something twists in my chest, making my breath expel all at once. This happens every time she brings up leaving. “I cannot say, but my promise remains unchanged. Once we crack the drive, we will discuss your return. The police are an unfortunate complication, but I am confident we can find a way to deal with them.”

She nods, then so do I.

“I am going to take a shower.”