Page 19

I may not know exactly how the Russian criminal world works, but I know that real estate moguls don’t generally need a gun-carrying bodyguard at their back the entire time.

And Google is free.

Dimitry might not have a single social media profile, nor appear anywhere online except as a shadowy background figure in the paparazzi snaps of Roman, but the articles to which those photographs are attached tell a pretty damning story.

The simple fact is that after Yuri, his adoptive father, was imprisoned several years ago, Roman took over the family business, which means he heads the entire Stevanovsky bratva clan.

From what I can make out, the Stevanovskys rose to the height of Spain’s criminal world after one hell of a mafia war.

And going by the way Dimitry shadows Roman, he was right in the middle of it.

So why are you pushing this?

I gasp as Dimitry’s mouth closes over my nipple again, his hand roaming lower, but with an infuriating lack of haste.

His fingers play across my lower belly, staying just far enough away from where I need them to make me part my legs and arch toward him in silent entreaty.

He chuckles in the back of his throat, taking his sweet time, his tongue maddeningly slow and sensual.

For such an enormous man, he has the most delicate, exquisite way of touching me .

Of distracting me, more like.

And I’m pushing this because I’ve already made these mistakes. I’ve already suffered the consequences of playing in a world where there are no rules. I can’t go back there, no matter how divine Dimitry’s hands feel on me, nor how addictive these long afternoons have become.

“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 what I’m capable 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.”

“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 a remonstrative 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 Cardenas 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 know what it 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.

“Knives. Bullets.” He shrugs, casually dismissing the savagery like it’s long gone.