Page 5 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

“Then I guess not.”

He stands up. His chest brushes against mine. I jump back like he’s a live wire. I think I see him smile, but I look away before I can confirm it.

This has gone on long enough. He needs to go.

“I’ll bill your insurance in the morning,” I say, waving my hand towards the door. “Off you go.”

He doesn’t move. “You’re funny.”

“And I’ll be here all week. But that’s not an invitation. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask that you never come back here again.”

He whistles and resists the shove towards the door I give him. “You don’t mince words, either.”

“And you don’t take a hint.” I push him harder, ignoring how solid he feels beneath my fingers.

Again, it doesn’t do a lick of good. With one move, he slams the door to the hallway shut and leans against the door, blocking us both inside.

“I still have a gun, you know,” he says casually.

My heart beats faster but I try to keep a calm demeanor. “If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it by now. And if you decide to hold me captive in here, I might request that. Put me out of my misery, you know?”

He chuckles. “You should be more scared of me,krasavitsa.”

Is that Russian he just spoke? Whatever it is, it communicated directly with the heat between my thighs in a way that is equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Not that I’m willing to show this son of a bitch what he’s doing to me.

“You ran away and hid from a fight. Is that supposed to have me quaking in my boots, tough guy?”

There’s a growl of anger as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Boys stand their ground when they don’t have a chance. Men know that you can’t fight a war if you’re dead.”

“War?” I roll my eyes. “What are you, a drug dealer or something?”

He shrugs. “Let’s go with ‘something.’”

His shoulders are broad, chest tapering down to trim hips and strong thighs. He’s the kind of built that comes from a magic mixture of genetics and working out vigorously. I imagine him lifting weights—shirtless, muscles rippling, sweat dripping down his tattooed skin…

Then my fantasy shimmers and shapeshifts and suddenly, it’s me that he’s manhandling. His large, strangely graceful hands claiming every inch of me as his muscles clench, pressing himself into—

“Time to go!” My voice is high-pitched and strained. A heat has built in my stomach. Almost certainly a side effect of adrenaline and fear mixing with lethal levels of horniness.

Let’s be very clear: I donotwant this man.

I’ve sworn off men like this. Men who show up with random wounds and bruises and broken bones. Men who put themselves—and me—in danger.

I’m done with that lifestyle.

But it doesn’t seem to be done with me.

The man hasn’t moved. “It could still be dangerous out there. For both of us. I think the best solution would be to stay here for a while,” he says, uncrossing his arms and sliding his hands into his front pockets, his hips jutting forward. “I’m sure we could think of some way to kill the time.”

The bulge at his crotch is like a homing beacon. It takes me three full seconds to pull my eyes away.

“You need to leave,” I repeat, trying to reach around his body to find the doorknob. “Time to vacate the premises. You’re all patched up and I need to get home.”

He slides over and pins my hand behind his body. “Is there someone waiting for you at home?”

“My husband,” I lie without hesitation.

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