Page 85 of Twisted Pact

Alexei reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I want to take care of you, Mila. You and the baby. I know you need time to decide about marriage, but I need you to know that I’m committed to this. To us.”

The earnestness in his voice makes something flutter behind my ribs. Not just attraction, though that’s a part of it. Something deeper. Something that feels dangerously close to the word he won’t say, and I’m not ready to hear.

I turn my hand over and lace our fingers together. “I know you are.”

“Sometimes, I think you see everything I do as manipulation or control instead of genuine care.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference,” I admit. I study his face and the sharp angles that are softened by candlelight. The way his thumb strokes across my knuckles like he can’t help touching me. The vulnerability he’s trying to hide behind careful neutrality. “And then sometimes, I think you might actually love me, even if you’re too afraid to say it.”

His breath catches, and his grip on my hand tightens. “Mila?—”

“I’m not asking you to say anything; I’m just acknowledging what I see.”

“What do you see?”

“A man who calls my father to get a recipe he could have easily found online. Who spends hours getting the details perfect because he wants to make me happy. Who looks at me like I’m something precious.”

“You are precious.”

The words come out rough, like they’ve been dragged from somewhere deep inside him. Like admitting it costs something he’s not sure he can afford to lose.

I stand and walk around the table to where he’s sitting. His eyes track my movement, darkening as I approach. When I reach him, I place my hands on his shoulders and feel the muscle beneath flex under my touch.

“Thank you,” I whisper against his ear. “For dinner. For caring. For being the kind of man who thinks about what would make me smile.”

I press a soft kiss to his temple, meaning it as gratitude. As acknowledgment of the effort he made. But when he turns his head and our mouths are suddenly inches apart, gratitude transforms into something much more dangerous.

“We should clean up,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

“Later.”

I lean in and kiss him, softly at first. Grateful. But when he responds by pulling me closer, gratitude burns away and leaves only desire.

He tastes like the dinner we just shared. Like comfort and care and all the things I’ve been afraid to let myself need. When his hands slide up my back, I melt into him with a sigh that comes from deep in my chest.

I straddle his lap, and the chair creaks under our weight. His hands go to my hips, steadying me as I settle against him. I feel him hardening beneath me, and the knowledge that I affect him this way sends heat pooling in my belly.

“I want you,” I tell him.

“You have me.”

The simple declaration sends shivers racing up and down my arms. This feels different from our previous encounters. It’s less frantic and desperate, more like two people who care about each other instead of two people trying to work through complicated feelings via physical release.

I pull back enough to really look at him. His pupils have dilated, and his breathing has changed. He maintains careful control, even though I can feel just how much he wants this.

“I want to touch you,” I say.

“Then touch me.”

I start with his shirt. Work the buttons open one by one while maintaining eye contact. Each bit of revealed skin makes my mouth water. When I push the fabric off his shoulders, he helps by shrugging out of it.

His chest is a work of art, all lean muscle and scattered scars that tell stories I don’t know yet. I trace one with my fingertip, and he shudders under my touch.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

I lean down and press my mouth to the mark, tasting salt and skin and something uniquely him. His hands tangle in my hair, holding me against him like he’s afraid I might pull away.