Page 62 of Til Death Do Us Part (Kornilov Bratva Duet 2)

I shake my head. “Tough luck. I’m not sleeping closest to the door.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“Murderers,” I say, like it is obvious. That has been my reason for not sleeping close to the door my entire life and it has always sounded absurd. Now, however, it is a real possibility that murderers will pour into our bedroom. But if they do, I’m not sure being two feet further from the door will do much to spare me.

Still, Viktor holds up his hands in defeat. “Fine. I’ll sacrifice myself first in the event that someone comes into our room to murder us. You just have to promise that if they do, you’ll try to run. I don’t want to die for nothing.”

“Promise,” I say, trying to keep my tone light as I move to the closet. “The other problem is there is no room for your clothes in here.”

He comes to stand next to me, his hands on his hips. “How do you have this many clothes?”

“You bought them for me! Don’t blame me. You gave me more than I could ever wear.”

He sighs and begins riffling through the closet and pulling things out. Quickly, I realize he is pulling out all of my sweaters, T-shirts, and sweatpants and laying them on the bed, leaving behind my dresses, low-cut tops, and jeans.

“What are you doing?”

“Get rid of everything on the bed and keep what’s in the closet,” he says.

I grab his arm as he threatens to throw my favorite pair of pajama pants over his shoulder. “You’re taking all my comfortable clothes and leaving me the skimpy stuff.”

He wags his eyebrows mischievously. “Like you said, I bought it all. Shouldn’t I be the one to decide what stays and what goes?”

I scoop up the stuff on the bed and begin hanging it back up. “Absolutely not. It all stays. Even these.”

I hold up a pair of fuzzy pajama pants with cartoon frogs all over them—the only thing I actually bought myself. Viktor wrinkles his nose. “We can throw away the cap to the toothpaste if you get rid of those.”

“Never!” I scream, laughing maniacally.

Viktor walks away, shaking his head, but I see his shoulders shaking with laughter.

Over the next hour, we reorganize some of the furniture to better suit a life together—pushing two armchairs close together, setting out two mugs next to the coffee pot, and putting Viktor’s home weights next to my elliptical machine. By the time we are done, it looks like a well-lived in house, and I’m sweaty.

“I need to clean up before they get here. I’m sticky,” I say, wiping my arm across my forehead.

When I look over, Viktor is watching me, his eyes more focused than they were just a moment ago. His gaze slips down my body, and I know what he is thinking.

I wasn’t thinking it, but I am now.

“Are you going to shower, too?” I ask innocently.

He nods slowly. “I should.”

We stare at one another for a long time, and I can feel the unspoken question in the tilt of Viktor’s head as he watches me.

Is it too soon? Too soon to want this after what happened today? Are you ready? Are we okay?

Honestly, the right answer might be that it is far too soon. That I’m too raw to make a good decision or think clearly. But right now, I don’t care about being right. I’d rather be wrong with Viktor than right without him.

So, in answer, I grab his hand and pull him behind me all the way back upstairs and into the bathroom. I let go only to start the water and let it get warm.

The room quickly starts to fill with steam, and I turn back to him and undo the button of his jeans. Viktor watches my fingers carefully, as though his very life depends upon my next movements. I grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one quick motion. He lifts his arms to help, stretching the strong muscles of his abdomen in a way that makes my mouth water. Then, he pushes his jeans down while I start to take my own jeans off.

I only wiggle my hips once to shimmy out of my jeans before Viktor replaces my hands with his own and hooks his fingers in the waistband. He drops to his knees in front of me in nothing more than his boxers and peels the denim down, his eyes taking in the sight of me, inch by inch until I’m free of the pants, and he can sweep his fingers over my skin.

The room is entirely foggy now. The air is thick and warm, but goose bumps still rise over my arms and legs as Viktor grabs the hem of my shirt and pushes it up my body, his palms sliding over my breasts as he lifts it over my head.

As soon as the shirt is gone, his mouth drops to my neck, and I lose track of what happens to my panties and bra, but I don’t care. Burn them. I’ll never wear undergarments again if the reward is this feeling. This heady, blissed-out warmth that seeps into my head and heart and lungs and makes everything okay.

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