Page 66 of Emerald Malice

I slapped his chest and he grabbed me around the waist and threw me down on my back, then ravaged me until I saw stars.

As it turns out, I am indisputably a screamer. Apparently, it just took the right man to show me that.

I never in a million years would’ve considered Andrey Kuznetsov to be the “right man” for anything. But if we’re talking hot, passionate, wild sex… If we’re talking claw-marks-on-his-back, bruises-on-my-ass, mind-numbing, toe-curling, stomach-exploding sex…

He’s sure as hell right for that. This last week is proof in the pudding.

He’s visited me every night—usually around midnight, when the leaves of the trees turn an inky black to match the skies. I’ve started leaving the door open so he can just slip inside without bothering with the key.

And as for my granny panties—comfortable as they are, reliable as they’ve been—they are now relegated to the bottom drawer, along with all the other clothes I’ve abandoned without a second thought.

Who needs clothes where we’re going, right? They’d just get in the way.

If I have one complaint about our nightly escapades, it’s that they’re limited to sleeping hours. I wake up each morning—my body raw, spent, freshly bruised, and comfortably achy—to an empty bed.

I feel it when he leaves me at night. The sudden absence of his weight and warmth makes my stomach twist with disappointment.

Just sex, I repeat to myself each time. It’s just sex.

The thing is, if I’ve learned anything from Pretty Woman, it’s that sex is never just sex. And human beings aren’t capable of doing casual for very long without someone wanting more.

And let’s face it: between Andrey and me, I’m fairly certain who that “someone” is going to be.

It’s a thought that’s been nagging at me for the last few days now. I’ve been swatting it away easily enough—until this morning.

I wake up to find his side of the bed empty again and a slight bump in my stomach that didn’t exist before.

I try to work off the growing frustration by doing some yoga out on the porch. But all my inner serenity keeps getting knocked sideways by the same old internal arguments.

You’re not his damn marionette—he can’t just play with you and then toss you aside when he’s done having his fun.

Except that you agreed to this.

Because you were horny. Not because you actually thought this through. Andrey isn’t right for you anyway.

Then why do you get those fluttery little butterflies in your stomach every time you think of him?

I’m driving myself slowly insane. Since yoga is a bust, I decide to work off my excess energy in the pool.

I’m swimming useless laps, the voices in my head still going at it, when Mila shows up. She’s wearing a halter midi-dress with cheeky cutouts in the hemline.

“Hey, Nat!”

The nickname triggers me. For one painfully lonely moment, I think of Katya. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Is she missing me as much as I’m missing her?

“Hi, Mila,” I sigh.

She stops a few feet from the pool so she doesn’t risk getting water on her shoes. I don’t blame her; the pair she’s wearing are six inches tall and look like they’re made from the skin of some exotic animal.

Her smile flips into a concerned frown. “Why so blue?”

I’m sorely tempted to crack my head open and share some of the torrential thoughts that have taken up residence since Andrey started visiting me at night. But as sweet as Mila is, she’s Andrey’s sister-in-law. As nice as she’s been, there’s no telling where her loyalties truly lie.

And even if she was the damn Dalai Lama, would I want to admit what I’ve been up to once the sun goes down? The mistakes I’ve been making? The moans I’ve been burying into my pillows?

Answer: No, I do not.

I miss Kat. She would understand. But I shove that thought right down in the trash can of my heart.

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