Page 81 of 10 Days to Surrender

The photographer chuckles nervously. “Signore, perhaps if you stand just over there, by the birch?—”

“No.”

“Sasha—”

He steps into the dappled light, all pent-up menace in a black shirt that clings to every lethal line. My traitorous pulse kicks. Giovanni pales, clutching his camera like a shield.

“We’re done here,” rumbles Sasha.

“But the golden hour approaches! The light will be?—”

Sasha plucks the camera from Giovanni’s hands and replaces it with a thick envelope. “This is more than adequate compensation for your time. And your camera.”

“I… but…” Then Giovanni opens the envelope, and his eyes go wide. “Ah.Si, si, of course.” He starts gathering his equipment even faster than the first time around and disappears without a word.

I wait until Giovanni practically jogs away down the drive before turning to Sasha. “That was a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“He was going to undress you.” His jaw works. “In the middle of the fucking forest.”

“It’s called artistic nudity, darling.” I adjust the slipping fabric. “Very tasteful. Verynaturale.”

“There’s nothing tasteful about another man’s hands on what’s mine.”

The words churn between us, heavy as thunder. We both know this crosses about a dozen different lines in our “just sex” agreement, but I’m finding it hard to care when he’s looking at me like that.

“Yours, huh?” I arch an eyebrow. “Funny, I don’t recall signing any property deeds.”

His hands find my hips, yanking me closer. “No? Then why are you still wearing my marks from last night?”

Well, shit. He’s got me there.

“The twins are yours,” I concede. “The rest is still up for debate.”

His fingers slide up to the knot Giovanni was reaching for. “Want to debate it right now?”

“I think you don’t know what ‘debate’ means.”

“I know what ‘mine,’ means,” Sasha replies, hedging closer to me until our hips are flush. “And I know that no one photographs my wife but me.”

‘Wife’ stops me cold. It’s not a term we use. Ever. It belongs to that nebulous future we both pretend doesn’t exist, along with ‘marriage’ and ‘forever’ and all those other dangerous words that cannot, should not, will not happen.

“I’m not your?—”

The camera shutter cuts me off.Click.

Sasha lowers the Nikon, gaze dark over the lens. “Smile,ptichka.”

“You’re insane.” I hitch the slipping silk higher. “And I’m not posing for some mafia maternity pinup.”

Click.

“There.” His mouth curves. “That scowl is perfect.”

I lunge for the camera strap. He spins me against a tree, bark rough through the flimsy gown. His breath scorches my ear. “You want art? I’ll give you art.Realart.”

The next hour bleeds gold.

He doesn’t tell me to arch or pout. Just circles with the camera, murmuring Russian filth that makes my nipples peak.Click.The silk slithers off one shoulder.Click.My laugh as wind tangles myhair.Click.The raw hunger in my eyes when his thumb scorches over my hip.

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