Page 199 of Ruins
Before I can step away, his hand cups my cheek, tilting my face until I’m forced to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes lightly over my skin, and I hate that it calms me, that it makes my frustration waver.
“What is it,” he asks softly, “that you think my type is?”
The words knot in my throat, but I resign myself to the truth. “Curvier women. Women with more... body to offer.”
Silence.
It stretches between us, thick and suffocating, broken only by the unsteady rhythm of my heartbeat echoing in the quiet room.
Then, Santo laughs.
A deep, rich sound that rumbles through his chest, lighting up his face in a way I’ve never seen before. Before I can protest, he turns me toward the mirror, positioning himself behind me, his legs pressing against the ottoman as he towers over me.
His touch is featherlight as he caresses the side of my face, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror’s reflection. His breath is warm against my ear when he whispers, “Vasilisa, there’s no one like you. You’re beautiful in ways they couldn’t begin to understand.”
His words strike something raw inside me, and tears prick at my eyes. Slowly, he peels the robe from my shoulders, pressing a kiss to my bare skin. I feel the warmth of his hands as he unties the fabric and lets it fall open, but his gaze remains locked on mine in the mirror.
“Look at yourself, Vasilisa,” he whispers, his hands trailing reverently down my sides, over my breasts and stomach, as if he’s memorizing every inch of me. “You’re beautiful. And you’remine.”
The words settle deep in my chest, curling around something fragile. I lean back against him, needing the solidity of his presence to keep me grounded.
“Don’t ever think your body needs to be more or less than what it already is,” he breathes against my skin, his lips brushing just below my ear.
Then, the warmth of his hands disappears as he steps back, taking a seat on the ottoman.
I glance toward him, confused, but his voice halts me.
“Sit,” he commands gently.
My breath catches. “What?”
“Hook your legs over mine,” he says, his tone calm yet insistent.
Heat floods my face.
If I do, I’ll be completely exposed—to him, to the mirror. The thought paralyzes me for a moment, but Santo’s gaze is patient, filled with something deeper than desire. “Trust me,” he urges, holding out his hand.
With a shaky exhale, I take it. Slowly, I straddle his lap, my legs hooked over his, my thighs spread open. My gaze flickers to the mirror, but the moment I see myself, I instinctively look away.
I feel Santo’s fingers tighten on my waist, grounding me. He pulls me back against his chest, his warmth seeping into my skin.
“Look at us,” he murmurs, his lips trailing just behind my ear.
“I’d rather not,” I say softly, forcing a laugh, but the nervous edge in my voice betrays me.
His hand moves slowly, tracing the length of my arm, deliberate and reverent. “Why not?”
“You know why,” I whisper.
I finally force myself to look at him in the mirror. His reflection is steady, unwavering, while I can’t stop searching for flaws I know are there.
His head shakes slightly before he even speaks. “No. We just talked about this.” His eyes lock onto mine in the glass, his voice firm but tender.
I hesitate, my chest tightening under his gaze. “I’m just... not enough. I don’t look like—”
“Stop.” His voice is gentle but leaves no room for argument.
I swallow the rest of my words.
