Page 26 of Toxic Temptation (Krayev Bratva #1)

VESPER

“‘Fun’?” I croak, hoarse and flustered. “What ‘ fun’ ? There will be no fun here. Let me make this clear.” I jab my finger between us, then sweep it to encompass the rest of the room. “This is strictly a no-fun zone.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing; I’m pissed off.” I pivot away from him, but my voice betrays me with its breathiness. “Is it not enough that you abducted me? You have to hold me hostage in my own apartment, too?”

My throat feels raw. Meanwhile, Kovan’s voice remains the same calm, velvet baritone that it’s always been.

“No one’s holding you hostage. You can leave anytime.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers. “I need to sleep, Kovan. I just worked a twenty-eight-hour shift and I am like the Walking fucking Dead.”

“So sleep.” He shrugs. “No one’s stopping you.”

“You are, actually. By being here.”

“There’s no bed in the second room,” he points out. “And Luka needs his space.”

“Yeah? Well, what about my space? You know—the person who owns this apartment? ”

“Why would you want space from your beloved boyfriend?” Laughter dances just underneath the lacquered surface of his tone.

I almost don’t believe my ears. The bastard is enjoying this.

And yes, maybe there’s a small—a very small—part of me that’s enjoying it, too. Which is exactly why I need him out of my room, pronto.

“The armchair is big enough for both your body and ego.” I yank the pile of clothes off it and dump them on the floor. “You’re welcome to sleep here.”

“That’s an armchair?” His eyes go wide with mock surprise. “I thought it was a laundry basket.”

“Very funny. Truly, I’m in stitches. Tears in my ears. You’re a comedic talent without peer.”

He winks. “Thanks for noticing. We should establish our sides of the bed, don’t you think?”

“Great idea.” I point to the bed. “That’s my side.” Then I point to the armchair. “That’s yours. Sleep well, nighty-night!”

With that point made as firmly as I can make it, I turn around and busy myself making the bed, smoothing sheets that don’t need smoothing, fluffing pillows that don’t need fluffing.

What am I doing? Why am I doing this? When do I ever make my bed?

I roll out of it; I roll into it. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The most I do is change the sheets every other week. I know, I know—I’m disgusting.

A thought occurs to me. I turn back around to face Kovan. “For purposes of Ms. Trunchbull, however?—”

“Who?”

“—we will say that my side is the right,” I finish. “Just in case she ever asks, weird as that would be. And just so we’re clear, these conversations are as familiar as we’re ever getting in this department. Copy that?”

His smile is ghost-light but devastating. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

For a moment, I’m not sure myself. “Telling you,” I decide. “Definitely telling you.”

“Very well.” He inclines his head. “I’ll respect your wishes, Dr. Fairfax. No bed talk—unless you invite me under the covers yourself.”

“Which will never, ever happen.”

“I should hope not. After the show you’ve put on tonight, you’d have to beg me to climb in.” His eyes are sparkling with taunting laughter. “On hands and knees, probably. And even then… Well, no promises.”

“You seem to be under the extremely mistaken impression that I want you.” I lift my chin. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“I see. And you keep staring at my forearms because you’re trying to figure out how to get arms like these yourself…?”

He flexes, and my mouth goes dry.

I turn my back on him so he can’t see the heat flooding my cheeks. “You certainly have an overactive imagination, Mr. Krayev. Not to mention an unhealthy sense of sexual entitlement. I hate to burst your bubble, but not every woman who sees you wants to get in your pants.”

“That hasn’t been my experience.”

My eyes snap to his involuntarily. His tone is playful, but his eyes hold sin and many dark promises I shouldn’t want him to keep. If we lived in Jane Austen’s time, Kovan Krayev would be called a rake , and he’d be more than deserving of the title.

All on its own, an imaginary slideshow starts playing in my head.

Kovan escorting a leggy, high-society brunette down a red carpet.

Kovan pouring champagne for a buxom blonde on the prow of a yacht.

Kovan, shirtless, pants pooled around his ankles, as a freckled redhead without a stitch of clothing sinks to her knees before him and ? —

I shudder until the images go away. So what? Who cares if he’s had countless women? So many he probably can’t remember their names? It’s not my problem, is it?

But it is. Because it should turn me off, but it doesn’t.

I try to talk myself into despising it, into being repulsed by him and all the things I can all too easily picture him doing.

I mean, who wants second-hand or third-hand or thousandth-hand goods?

Who wants something that’s already been pawed over by every trust fund baby and Victoria’s Secret supermodel from here to Paris Fashion Week and back again?

I do, apparently.

I want it a lot.

Like he can see into my filthy thoughts, Kovan grins.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re Casanova and we’re all just lucky to be in sniffing range of your pheromones.” I roll my eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He hasn’t moved. Still standing across from my bed, dwarfing the room, reminding me with every breath how much bigger he is.

If he decides to ignore me and take the empty side, I’m not sure what exactly I can do about it.

And with the current state of my feverish body, the way even my scrubs sliding over my skin feels naughty, I’d really rather not touch him at all.

“Do you usually sleep fully clothed?” he asks.

I blink at him. “Huh?”

He glances at my scrubs. “Your outfit. It doesn’t seem comfortable. Nor particularly sanitary.”

“Don’t worry about what I sleep in,” I snap back. “Just get comfortable in that armchair and be quiet. I’m exhausted, I’ve had a terrible day, and I don’t need someone talking my ear off. Especially not someone like you.”

“Whatever you want, honey .” The endearment sounds decadently wrong on his lips, even when it’s layered thick with that much sarcasm. “Bedtime it is.”

Without warning, he pulls his shirt over his head, and I find myself staring at the most defined abs I’ve ever seen.

Dear God, give me strength.

Those muscles have my heart racing so fast it might implode. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Going to sleep. Just like you told me to.” He tosses the shirt onto the back of the armchair. “Out of respect for your boundaries, I won’t sleep naked like usual.”

That should sound good, but my heart slows to a wan, disappointed drumbeat instead. “How generous of you.”

He turns his back and pulls off his pants. I get a perfect, unrequested view of his ass clad in black boxer briefs.

Charity always babbles about how much she appreciates a good, firm ass on a man. I never saw the appeal. I ought to text her and tell her I’ve now seen the error of my ways. The derrièrror, if you will.

God, I might be very dangerously exhausted if I’m making bad puns in French. I ought to go to bed now, before my mental capacity declines any further.

“Stop checking me out and go to sleep, Doctor.”

Spinning furiously and shamefully in place, I snatch a fresh towel and flee to the bathroom. Luka is already fast asleep on the sofa bed. He looks younger when he sleeps, when those gray eyes aren’t soaking up all the nooks and crannies of a world that showed its ugly side to him far too soon.

I lock myself in the bathroom and try to calm down with a cold shower.

Despite my exhaustion, I don’t feel sleepy.

No prizes for guessing why. No prizes for guessing why I stay in the shower until my fingers prune, either.

But no matter how long I stay, whether the water is hot or cold or on or off, nothing dispels the stubborn heat surging just underneath the surface of my skin.

Every droplet is a caress I don’t want and never asked for.

I pause when I finally concede defeat and step out of the shower. The question is… Now, what?

Usually, I sleep in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. But with my uninvited roommate, I opt instead for the navy silk pajama set Charity bought me last year. Shorts and a matching camisole with a daring V-neck.

It’s not so sexy I’ll feel exposed, but just sexy enough to give Kovan a taste of his own medicine.

I’ll see your abs and raise you cleavage and thigh, you smug S.O.B.

After brushing my hair with a comb I haven’t touched in weeks, I return to the bedroom. Kovan is sprawled on the armchair, legs propped against the windowsill, abs on less-than-innocent display. But I recognize them for the weapons they are.

I avoid looking at him as I walk to my bed, grateful he took the chair.

But I’m also fighting guilt over my petty victory. We’re both adults. What would be the harm in sharing a bed? Nothing has to happen.

Even as I think that, though, the idea of sharing a bed with Kovan and having nothing happen fills me with bitter disappointment.

I sink into bed and pull the sheets to my chest.

“Should I turn off the light?” rumbles Kovan without opening his eyes.

Despite my better judgment, I look at him. He makes my ratty armchair look good, but he’s too big for it. I have no idea how he’ll manage a full night. Not comfortably, that’s for sure.

Not your problem, girl. Ignore him. Forget him. Stay away from him.

Except guilt keeps rising in my chest.

He must take my silence for a yes, because with the flip of a switch, darkness engulfs us. But the curtains are still open and the street lights shine into the room. Kovan’s body glows ethereal white. His face is steeped in shadows, though.

I make myself stare at the ceiling instead of him. I wonder if he can hear my heart galloping away.

“What happened today?”