Page 66 of Sweet Deception

Why? How? Why?

As last night’s memories swarm me, I cringe and tug the blanket over my face. My fingers touch my throat…right at the spot where the crown of Darren’s dick jabbed me repeatedly. His musky taste lingers in my mouth.

Bozhe moy…The man even speaks Russian!

My thoughts swirl in a whirlpool of confusion.

One minute I’m under lock and key, and the next we’re collaborating to find out everything we can about the summit /human trafficking auction. Then, we’re on this couch, going at it like wild animals.

Ever since I met this man, I’ve felt different. I’m doing things I don’t normally do. Saying things I don’t normally say. Wanting things—lots of things—that I would never tolerate in my regular life.

I keep letting him take care of me. Protect me from harm. Cook for me. I even allowed him to attend to Piro, who meows and repositions himself in a small circle near my feet.

The last—and only—person to ever cover me while I slept was my grandmother, who would hum old Russian lullabies as she nestled me into handstitched quilts.

Over the years, I worked hard to become strong and self-sufficient, helping other women while never requesting or accepting aid for myself. If a simple act of kindness affects me this much, maybe I worked a little too hard.

As I inhale the lingering scent of gunpowder and spice that seems to follow Darren everywhere, I admit, somewhere deep inside myself, that it’s nice to be noticed. Cared for.

Even by someone who may ultimately be my enemy.

Speaking of…where is he?

I shove back the blanket and rise to my feet to search. He’s not in the kitchen. No cooking soundtrack echoes through the hall, nor do I smell any culinary masterpieces in progress.

The kitchen windows reveal his Aston Martin still parked out front, so I know he didn’t leave me here alone.

After another quick scan to confirm he’s not on the first floor, I drift toward the staircase, pausing when faint huffs and grunts greet my ears.

I trace the noise to the back patio.

Similar to the front walkway, red brick paves the small square expanse. Fall flowers bloom in clay pots along a railing that frames the area, and just beyond the flowers, I spotworkout benches, free weights, and iron bars. A gym buff’s wet dream.

Darren hangs from the iron bars, muscles flexing with each repetition as he completes pull-up after pull-up after glorious pull-up.

Early morning sunlight glints off the sweat beaded across his skin, highlighting old scars and burns on his arms.

Probably from all his pyrotechnic work. I’ve felt those scars but never actually studied them by the light of day. I’ve got the sudden urge to ask him about every single one.

I push through the door onto the patio and settle against the frame to conduct a more intensive analysis. His controlled movements and strength remind me of ballet.

He doesn’t glance over, but he knows I’m here.

He lifts his muscular yet lean body up a few more times before speaking. “See something interesting, princess?”

Heat creeps up my neck and dives into my lower belly.

Wow. Isn’t it a little early in the morning for my inner slut to be up and salivating for her next meal? Not that I blame her. The man’s body is pure art. “Just appreciating the technique. Your form’s not bad.”

“For a gangster, you mean?” Darkness lurks beneath his light tone.

I fold my arms over my chest. “For anyone.”

Watching Darren maintain the perfect machine that is his body awakens the same exact longing in me as ballet. Lately, I haven’t had much time to satisfy that urge, but all of a sudden, the craving strikes with a vengeance.

I want that excitement back. And I want it right now.

Heart drumming in my chest, I push off from the doorframe and flow into anarabesque.