Page 29 of The Bratva's Arranged Virgin Bride
This was so much better than a big flashy ring or a heavy bracelet dripping with diamonds that I’d never wear. Something like that didn’t take any thought at all, but this… This was amazing. He really did know me.
I shivered, putting the book carefully on the side table, promising I’d find a safer spot for it. I pretended I was deep in my work, shaken to the core by his thoughtful, perfect gift. Confused as hell as to why he gave it to me. And every nerve in my body was aware of his commanding presence in my space.
I could feel his eyes on me as I lifted my discarded brush and held it over the canvas. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to paint. The air seemed to crackle in the room as he took a step closer. I could feel him just a few feet away, feel his eyes on me. Before my hand could shake and give away how nervous he made me, I put the brush back down.
He moved closer, his big body just behind me, close enough to smell the heat of the day still clinging to him, along with his cologne. Close enough to feel his breath ruffle my ponytail. Reaching around me, his arm touched my side as he picked up the brush I had just discarded. I had already dippedit in a deep ochre paint, and he swiped it across the white background.
After a few more sure strokes, as if he knew exactly what he was doing, something started to appear. He paused, lowering the brush as if to decide what to do next. I looked it over and gasped. It was a very good outline of my profile. I would have recognized myself anywhere in just those few masterfully placed lines of paint.
“I never knew,” I said. Not that he painted or that he was so good at it.
“I used to,” he said. Was that a wistful tone in his voice? It was hard to tell when his nearness had me so distracted. “Selling art that isn’t mine is so much easier than trying to convince someone to take something I did,” he admitted with a quiet laugh.
“That’s the truth,” I said, laughing along with him.
More memories came rushing back, and I giggled harder. “That couple from Montana who were arguing with you about how they were sure our landscape was from the nineteenth century. They could tell by the luster of the paint.”
He snorted, taking up the brush again to start adding more lines to my profile. “Yes, they just took a class, and were absolutely positive that the painting that was just finished the week before was over two hundred years old.”
I dipped a fresh brush into some sky blue I had mixed up from that morning and began swirling it around his outline. “How much did they end up paying? Eight grand?”
“Eight and a half,” he corrected. “And thought they were getting a steal.”
We cracked up, our hands bumping together and causing a smear of the rich, tawny brown and my blue. Somehow, it worked, and we kept going. God, we had fun back then, too much fun. A twinge of guilt made me stop and look at what we started. Just a few brushstrokes inspired me in a way I hadn’t felt in ages, and the guilt disappeared like it never existed.
He leaned across me, his chin brushing the top of my head to add a few dabs that created cheekbones in his outline of my face. With a low rumble in his throat, he rubbed the freshly laid paint with his thumb, removing a trace. I thought it looked fine before, but now it was better. He knew what he was doing.
I changed colors, adding some faint gray, like a mist in the blue. After a few moments of standing glued to each other’s sides and frantically adding colors and lines, he stopped and put down his brush, taking my face in his hands. His eyes were intense, darker than a moonless midnight sky. A line of concentration split his eyebrows as he turned my face to the side to study my profile.
“I want to get your nose just right,” he said.
Then he turned me back to face him, and the grip on my jaw loosened. His fingers trailed down my cheeks, along the sides of my throat. The intensity in his eyes was still there, but it had changed. I recognized that look, because I’d seen it before. Right before we threw ourselves at each other in the kitchen.
My arms felt heavy, and my brush fell from my hand, rustling against the drop cloth under our feet. I swayed toward him, my hands rising to press against his chest, rock hard and hot under my palms. I could feel his heart thudding through the crisp white dress shirt that was now streaked with blue and gray from my fingers.
“Your shirt,” I managed to say.
“Don’t care,” he said, his head lowering.
My head tipped back. Every part of me yearned for him to touch me, but his hands were still against the sides of my neck. His mouth was still too far away from mine. I licked my lips, and he groaned. Why wasn’t he kissing me? Yanking me to that muscular body of his and gripping me tight?
The only thought in my head couldn’t even be called a thought, more a feral need. Something I had no words for, but had to have.
“Please,” I whispered, closing my eyes.
His mouth was on mine within a heartbeat. His fingers plunged into my hair, tugging the ponytail out and tipping my head further back. His tongue was in my open, eager mouth, his other hand sliding down my shoulder, raising goosebumps along my bare, sunburned arms to grip my waist.
My body slammed against his as he flattened his palm against my back. I could feel his heart against mine, wild birds trapped and trying to escape. My nipples hardened, and my legs felt like liquid. I was only held up by his hand in my hair, the other easing down my backside. The fabric of my dress bunched in his fist as he pulled it up.
The cool evening breeze coming in through the open window tickled my bare legs. He pushed his tongue deeper, dragging me so close to him I could hardly breathe. But I didn’t need to breathe when his hand finally touched the bare skin at the back of my thigh. I only needed more of that.
“Kolya,” I gasped as he dragged his mouth away.
Small kisses trailed down the side of my neck, and I let my head loll back. My dress was pushed up around my waist, and heworked his fingers under the bottom edge of my panties, feather-light against my heat.
“Soft,” he muttered, pushing my panties aside with a growl. “Hot.”
“Kolya,” I said again. Neither of us could complete a sentence, and neither of us made any sense. Just moans and gasps and pleas.
