Page 60 of Jewel of the Assassin
He lifts his head, raising a brow, waiting for me.
“The tour first,” I say. “And a tour of the grounds. And it might beextreme, but you can fuck me wherever you want, including the cliff.”
Roman’s voice is soft but firm while tracing a finger along my jawline. “Are you sure you want the tour first? After all, I’ve already taken you wherever I want—hot tub, springs, against the wall…And don’t pretend you didn’t want every second.”
I stiffen, especially since I’m still sore. But not like I was that morning. I slept for twenty-four hours, and he didn’t fuck me until later that day. And he’s right. I have wanted it. Not that I won’t bring a storm of curses the whole time. Ones he welcomes.
I lock eyes with him. “Tour first.”
He chuckles, rubbing his lips along my bare shoulder before hooking a finger under the silk strap. “You’re not going on a tour in your nightgown, Valentina.” A glint appears in his eye. Dangerous. Excited. “Lucky for you…I have a surprise.”
“A surprise?” I arch a brow, trying to play it cool, but I can already feel my cheeks flushing.
Roman touches my cheek, a gentle press of his fingers. “Come. Humor your husband.”
That wordhusbandtastes strange again. Some days I wear it like silk. Others, like iron.
Still, I let him lead me across the room.
The lights are soft, subtle illumination blooming from the sconces as he brings me to the tall mirror beside the wardrobe. There, hanging delicately on a velvet hanger, is a dress.
Red.
Deep, lush, utterly decadent. The color of blood and wine. As I reach for the dress, Roman slides the nightgown straps down my arms, baring me before the mirror. I feel the bulge of him from behind me, and when he glides his knuckles along my arm, I tremble, nearly wondering if he will give in to his hunger here and now.
But I breathe a blessed sigh of relief when he lets me try on the dress.
It’s simple, yes, but devastating. A low V-neck just enough toreveal the inner curve of my breasts, hugging the waist before flaring gently above the knees. Black lace trims the skirt. Feminine. Bold. Timeless.
My breath hitches.
“Roman…”
I feel the pearls before I see them. Cool beads kiss the hollow of my throat—black as midnight. The memory flashes again. They are not the same pearls, but they make my skin crawl and burn all at once.
The clasp clicks, and I stare at myself in the mirror. The red. The pearls. My hair, unbound and curling over one shoulder.
Stand at the window. Wear nothing but the black pearls.
A chill skitters up my spine, and I blink hard, swallowing a hard knot. I don’t tell Roman what I remember. Instead, I meet his eyes in the reflection. He’s watching me—intensely, reverently.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fucking beautiful.”
I can’t help it. The way he says it, the sincerity in his voice… it breaks something inside me. I look away before he sees the shimmer in my eyes.
“You ready for that tour?” I ask, voice steady even if my hands are trembling.
He doesn’t call me on it. He just slides his palm against the small of my back and presses a kiss to the top of my shoulder.
“Only if you’re not too sore,” he teases again, that wicked gleam returning.
“God, you’re incorrigible.”
“You married me,Mrs. Makarova.”
“Allegedly,” I mutter.
But I take his arm anyway, the pearls cool against my collarbone, the dress rustling softly with every step as he leads me from the bedroom.
