Page 22 of Vasily the Hammer

Not that I’m into it. I’m not.

But if he’s not into it, why does he even want me to do this?

“I don’t see you stripping,” I point out, hopingfor some answers.

When he reaches up to his neck and loosens his tie, I tell myself it’s not the answer I want. No, my breath absolutely does not catch as his finger snags the knot and pulls it delectably slowly. He tosses it on one of the chairs that faces his desk and then grabs his jacket at the button.

I bite my lip. I don’t realize I’m biting it, though, until Vasily’s hands still.

“No, no, this is your show, not mine. You don’t get this until you’ve finished. And stop pretending like you don’t want to do this. I know you’re dripping wet in your panties.”

Well, heck. I don’t want to say he’s right, but my less-than-graceful removal of the leggings likely gave him an eyeful.

He takes a few steps closer, until I have to tilt my head up to see him and he’s able to trace the bottom edge of my tank top, filling the space between us. “Go on, Ana,” he says more softly. “You want to, and I want you to.”

I swallow down the butterflies that have unloosed in my stomach, again feeling the strain between the fact that he’s my husband of six years and the fact that he’s a stranger. “Are you sure this is what I like to do?” I whisper.

The uncertainty in my tone must ring through to him because he leans down as he tilts my head up, laying a kiss on my lips. It’s soft and warm. Underneath the acrid, electric fug of smoke clinging to him, there’s a hint of mint, like he was chewing gum on the way up to the office. It’s sweet and reassuring, but most importantly?

It’s casual.

In the way that a man who has kissed his wife a million times before kisses his wife the million and first time. And I may not remember any of our previous kisses, but my body does. My bodytrusts this in a way it hasn’t trusted a single thing other than the dance it performed in the kitchen yesterday. I let my body go then, and I impressed myself.

I let my body go now and lift my tank top off.

A tingle races up my spine as I stand here in my baby blue sports bra and bright pink panties, selected thoughtlessly because I had assumed that, with everything that’s happened, Vasily has been keeping physical distance out of respect to me.

But then his eyes dip in a languid perusal, lingering on my nipples pebbling in the sports bra and down over my stretch-marked stomach, and on to those pink panties that no doubt have a dark spot right at my crevice. He takes it all in with a pleased, heavy smile. An aroused flush makes his pale face seem to glow.

He runs a finger along my collar bone, hooking onto the strap of my sports bra and giving it a tug. It doesn’t budge more than a couple inches to slide slightly around my shoulder, but he smiles and rests another kiss where the band was.

My heart tightens.

He’s gentle.

I hadn’t expected that.

Not hesitant either. Again, something I would have written off as a trauma concern, but he hasn’t asked for permission once, and he kind of, sort of threatened me with his demands. No, my big, rough husband with more guns than a CEO of some mass-production plastic crap maker needs actually seems to be equally dominant and delicate with his wife.

I grab the button of his jacket, lamenting that no flesh is available for me when he’s in corporate garb, so I’m going to have to peel several layers away before I can return the gentle touch.

He steps back. I attempt to follow, but he holds a hand out to stop me. “Finish with your clothes,zvyoz...”

Whatever he was about to say, nothing even close to English, seems to trail off before he finishes saying it, but damn if that buzzy little sound doesn’t tingle my arms enough to make the hairs stand up. The accent lingers as he shoos me back to the window.

“Go on, I’m sure your fans have missed you. Show them what they can see but may never touch.”

I’m not sure why that hits just right, but there’s a power in that, isn’t there? Even if they have binoculars at their cubicles to get up close and personal, to learn every curve and every saggy bit, every mole and every fold, they can’t touch me here in this office. Only my husband can.

With that assurance, I face the window as I peel the sports bra off, letting all of Los Angeles see my chest. I stare hard at that office across the street, peering through the polarized glass to figure out who’s looking this way. Plenty of dark figures. If any are looking at me right now, if they’re watching and waiting to see how far I could go, wondering if they can sneak away to rub one out or have the privacy of their own office to come all over that polarized glass, I wouldn’t know.

Holy hell.

I feel . . .

I feelpowerful.

Vasily behind me rumbles in approval as I straighten my spine and roll my shoulders back. No one over there cares that I don’t have the tits I’m sure I had when Vasily and I first married— although truth be told, there’s so little substance behind the sagging flesh that I’m not sure I had tits before gravity entered the equation. They’re just a bunch of perverts ready to get their rocks off again.

---