Page 63 of Twilight Sins

He waves me away. “Do your worst.”

I want to. I really want to. Having a credit card and an ebook store is my version of Julia Roberts shopping for clothes in Pretty Woman. This is my romcom montage moment.

But I’ve taken enough from Yakov already.

“You have an entire library here, though. This is too much.”

“Romance novels are not going to wipe me out, Luna.”

My name in his deep baritone voice… Make that the sixth most romantic word ever spoken.

“Still, you didn’t have to?—”

“I know. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”

I groan. “I wish you’d stop saying that.”

“Then stop forgetting it. I bought you that because I know exactly what books are sitting on your nightstand. My library is a touch light on Fondled by the Forbidden King.”

My cheeks are so red that I could stand at an intersection and direct traffic. “You saw those?”

Benjy hated that I read romance. He said it was unrealistic. Probably because he didn’t hold a candle to any of my fictional boyfriends.

But since meeting Yakov, the heroes on paper aren’t quite as interesting as the man standing in front of me.

I hug the Kindle to my chest and force myself to smile. “You’re going to be so surprised when I buy every romance in existence and you go bankrupt.”

He hands me another bag. “Keep opening. There’s more.”

A lot more. An iPad, a journal, a rainbow assortment of pens that would make Tweenage Luna absolutely giddy, gardening gloves, and a red and black gift bag stuffed with red tissue paper.

“This one is fancy.” I pull out the red tissue paper and immediately shove it back in. “Oh. Underwear.”

“Pajamas,” Yakov corrects.

“I don’t know what kind of pajamas you’ve seen recently, but—” I stop and shake my head. “Actually, this makes perfect sense. Any woman spending the night with you is probably wearing exactly what is in that bag.”

They’d be stupid not to. Yakov rips off his shirt and looks the way photoshopped models on fitness magazines wish they looked. It’s hard to be in the same room with that without feeling self-conscious. Satin and lace are the kind of armor a woman would need.

“You said you ran out of pajamas, so I made sure that wouldn’t happen again.”

It’s the first—albeit vague—reference he’s made to what we did the other night. I was under the impression we were going to tiptoe around it until the next time the sexual tension became too obvious to ignore. Then we’d tear through each other’s clothes and spend another night doing things we wouldn’t talk about the next day.

But a bag of lingerie feels like he wants to do a lot more than just talk about what we did. It seems like he wants a repeat.

I laugh nervously. “If this is your way of telling me you don’t want me wearing your t-shirts, message received.”

“I don’t want to have to rip through any more of my favorites.”

Damn. I was going for aloof and mysterious, but I should have known better. Yakov is the king. Does he want me? Does he not? Hell if I know.

“So the lingerie is really a gift for you then.” I realize what I said a moment too late and hurry to explain. “It’s insurance to protect your closet.”

“No, it’s all for you, Luna. Only you can decide how to use it.”

There’s really only one way to use lingerie. Then again, he could be talking about the Kindle. I want him to be talking about the Kindle, don’t I? That’s a lot less complicated than the alternative.

Yakov clears away our empty plates. Dinner is over. He’ll probably retreat into his office or wherever it is he hides away while I’m in his bedroom.

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