Inked Adonis: Chapter 7

I’m so focused on the world-ruining humiliation of that little display at the lake that I don’t think about all the future potential humiliations littering the path ahead until we’re standing outside my apartment door.

When was the last time I tidied?

Is my bra still hanging from the cabinet above the bookshelf to dry?

What if my laptop is somehow open to my search history from last week, and he finds out exactly how far I went down the rabbit hole of “photos of Samuil Litvinov shirtless”?

This time, I actually do consider rescinding the offer. Never mind. Find somewhere else to dry off. Goodbye forever.

But it’s too late. We’re here.

So I unlock the door and push it open. “Well, this is it. Shoebox, sweet shoebox.”

Samuil literally ducks through the door—and to think I thought my studio felt small with just Rufus inside. I’m not even sure we’re all going to fit, but somehow, we manage.

The heinous criminal of a dog immediately launches himself onto my free-if-you-can-haul-it-away couch. Mud and lake water spray everywhere as he makes himself perfectly at home.

“This apartment is going to smell like wet dog for the next three months,” I say with a grimace.

Rufus, villain that he is, just lays his head on his crossed paws and gives me the sweetest puppy dog eyes the world has ever seen.

I can only sigh. “That dog could get away with murder, I swear.”

Samuil doesn’t say anything, but it’s only because he’s walking the length of my bookshelves, head tilted to the side so he can read the spines. Shoved between and on top of the books are unpaid bills, an old Chinese takeout container, and—yep, there it is. My bra. Dangling from the Children’s Illustrated Bible Grams gave me when I was five.

If there’s a God, He’s laughing His divine ass off right now.

“It’s not exactly the Taj Mahal, but… it’s home.”

“I think it’s wise not to live in a tomb.” He stops in front of my purple, lacy bra for just long enough to take in all the ratty details before he turns around. “An apartment is a better choice.”

It takes me a second to understand what he means. A nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “Right. I just meant, you know… it’s small. Sorry.”

“You’ve apologized for enough without adding your apartment to the mix, krasavitsa.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Nothing bad.” He chuckles, but still doesn’t offer me a translation.

He meanders towards the window wall of the apartment, where I know he’ll find the stack of smutty novels currently subbing in as the leg of my broken armchair. Today has been humbling enough, so I cut him off at the pass.

“My bedroom is that way.” I gesture towards the door in the corner like I’m Vanna White.

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

My ears burn. “That’s not what I— My bathroom is in my⁠—”

“I’m only teasing, Nova.” His hand ghosts across my lower back as he guides me through my own apartment. “After you.”

On the brief and yet somehow endless walk across the living room, I catalog the horrors he’s about to see. Unmade bed, yet more books littering the side of the mattress where a second human could theoretically sleep—though it’ll be obvious enough that hasn’t occurred in many moons—and a week’s worth of bedtime drinks I was too lazy to clear away.

I want to apologize ahead of time, but it’s way too late for that.

When we walk into my room and I see my open underwear drawer, complete with a parachute-sized pair of granny panties dangling from the knob, I bite my tongue until I taste blood.

“Cozy,” Samuil murmurs, almost to himself.

That’s certainly a word for it.

I screech to a halt outside the bathroom door. His body collides with mine, a wall of pure muscle that sends electricity sparking through my rain-damp clothes. I spin around. “Give me a second.”

He opens his mouth, but I’m already squeezing through the crack and slamming the door in his face.

And, just like I thought, the box of tampons Rufus ransacked this morning is still scattered across the floor. Along with—Jesus take the wheel—my vibrator and a bottle of lube.

I commence the fastest clean-up in modern history. I’m a Scooby-Doo-esque blur of limbs, and I’ve just managed to shove all of the crap into the tiny, overstuffed cubby under the sink when Samuil calls out, “Everything okay?”

“Doing great!” I squeak, peeking behind the shower curtain to make sure I didn’t leave any hair stuck to the shower wall.

It’s clear. Thank God for small mercies.

“The water takes a minute to heat up,” I warn. “And the shower is a little small, even for me. You might not even fit because of all the… All the you.” Heat crawls up my neck. “Also, my shampoo is from CVS, so it probably has chemicals that’ll make your hair fall out. But you can at least rinse off⁠—”

“Nova.”

It’s the same tone he used to rein Rufus in earlier.

It works just as well on me.

I turn to him, painfully aware that we’re packed into the tight space. There’s no way I can move without touching him.

“I don’t care about any of that. Take a breath.”

Then he peels his wet shirt right over his head.

Welp. So much for breathing.

All the Googling in the world couldn’t have prepared me for the real-life, in-the-flesh sight of Samuil’s bare chest. My tongue is a useless, dry lump in my mouth as I take in his granite abs, the chiseled lines of his obliques.

I wrench my gaze away from his body to his face, which only makes my cheeks burn hotter. “Sorry. I’ll get out of your way. I just need to⁠—”

I try to edge past him, but he doesn’t budge. He remains stubbornly in front of the only exit as he unbuttons his pants.

Where does the definition end? His obliques go on and on and on…

Eyes up, you pervert!

“Fresh towels,” I squeak, struggling to remember my native language in the face of so much gorgeous skin. “There are fresh towels…somewhere. But I should go.”

Translation: please move so that I can leave the bathroom without rubbing up against you.

Heat pools in my belly and seems to be spreading south, but that doesn’t stop my nipples from trying to carve through the skintight material of my workout top. I want to hope Samuil doesn’t notice, but I catch his eyes shifting from my chest to my eyes and I know that there is nothing this man does not see.

“Nova…”

His voice is warm, beckoning. I can’t help but shift closer. He lays a hand on my wrist, and our eyes meet. His are molten, burning straight to the core of me.

“You’re cold.” His voice reverberates in my bones. “Take off your wet clothes.”

“Who’s trying to get who naked now?” I force out a half-hearted laugh, but Samuil isn’t smiling. “I’m okay. I can wait for⁠—”

“Now.”

It’s an order. I don’t even try to resist.

I peel off my tank top with trembling fingers and discard it in the clothes hamper.

He hooks a finger in the waistband of my leggings. “These, too.”

“I’m really not that cold.”

“I wasn’t asking, Nova.”

I can’t think about the next step. Where this leads, I don’t know, but I want to obey him. Need to obey him. I like the steely confidence in his voice and the way he watches me without blinking as I strip my leggings down one leg and then the other. They land in the hamper with a wet slap.

He doesn’t even pretend like he’s not looking. His blazing eyes burn through my skin.

“Take your panties off, too.”

But I’m frozen now. I’m rendered useless by his hands and attention and the weight of what this all means.

Samuil’s fingers brush against my hip. “Would you prefer if I did it for you?”

He doesn’t bother waiting for me to answer, which is good, because I forgot all the words that mean For the love of all that is good and pure in this world, don’t stop; keep going.

His hand slips beneath the waistband and around, curling against my ass. Then he hauls me against him, catching my lips with his own.

My head spins. My heart rate climbs to dangerous new heights. His tongue slips into my mouth, tasting and teasing, and I’m in danger of falling over.

Except I can’t possibly fall—not when Samuil is holding me against his body like this. His hands glide over my curves, dragging our bodies together until we’re both groaning between heady, sloppy kisses.

I curl my fingers through his damp hair, and suddenly, I’m not on the floor anymore.

Only when my bare ass lands on the edge of the sink do I even realize that I’m no longer wearing panties. He’s kicking off his pants while he trails kisses down my jaw and my neck. While he circles his lips around my pebbled nipples and slides his hand between my legs.

Samuil growls as he finds the evidence between my thighs of exactly how much I want this, but I’m too far gone to care. I grip his shoulder and cry out as he slides a thick finger into me.

I whimper with every fraction of him into me, rolling my hips as he fucks me with one finger and then two. I grab his neck and kiss him, if only to keep myself from screaming. The last thing I want right now is Rufus getting worried and breaking down the door.

The kiss turns ravenous. No holds barred, tongues lashing, heartbeats melding. By the time we break away, panting and breathless, I’m grinding against his hand and whining like…

Well, Rufus.

My body tightens. The heat inside of me builds and builds until I want to cry. I’m desperate for him.

“Please,” I breathe against his lips.

With one pass of his thumb over my center, I fall apart.

I’m still clenching around his fingers when he slides out of me.

“Come on, little krasavitsa,” he growls in what I’m pretty sure is Russian. “You’re filthy. Time to clean you up.”

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest as he steps into the shower. The water is already running warm—he must have turned it on at some point, though I have no memory of when. He proceeds to spin me around and bend me over.

I grip the faucet with slippery hands and dig my toes into the rubber mat as Samuil’s cock slides against me, back and forth and back and forth without going in yet.

A moan escapes my lips, but it’s wonderful how little I care. Finally, there are no nerves, no embarrassment, no thought at all beyond how good he feels against me.

I could finish happily like this—until he finally presses into me.

That’s when I realize that I need more. All of him.

He fills me slowly, letting me adjust to his size, which, like the rest of him, is absurdly huge. “You can take more of me,” he growls. “One inch at a time. Open up for me like a good girl, Nova. I know you can.”

I plant my hands on the shower wall and press back against him, taking him deeper.

“Fuck,” he growls, fisting my hair to arch my back.

He fucks me tenderly at first, but it’s not long before I feel him losing control. His fingers dig into my skin as he pulls me against him over and over. More wild. More erratic.

I don’t want this to end. My heart soars and plummets the closer I get to the edge. This is precisely why I didn’t want to get involved with someone like Samuil Litvinov.

We aren’t even finished yet, and I already know he’s ruined me for all other men.

“That’s right, baby,” he rumbles, sliding his hand around my hip to play with my clit. “Come for me again. Be my good girl and come.”

Black dots speckle the edges of my vision as the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced rages through me. He bands an arm around my chest and lifts me against him so he can penetrate all the way into my fucking soul.

I feel his breath hot against my neck as it hitches… and he pulses into me with a groan.

Listening to him fall apart is almost better than my own release. It’s an endless, staggering procession of jerks and grunts and his heat blooming deep inside me.

Even when it ends, he doesn’t let me go. Not quite. We stay close, tangled, the lines blurred where one of us starts and the other one begins.

Then, almost reluctantly, he kisses the side of my neck and my shoulder as he slides out of me. More heat runs down my legs. The last of the hot water cleans away the evidence of what we did.

Quietly, Samuil lathers shampoo into my hair and spreads body wash over my skin. He rinses it off. Neither of us says a word.

There’s only one towel in the cabinet above the toilet, so we share it. He dries me off first, then himself, then helps me step into my bathrobe before he dresses again in his damp undershirt and trousers.

Still, nobody speaks.

My legs are still shaking as I walk him back through my bedroom and my living room to the door. When we get there, I pause and sink my teeth into my lip, unsure what to say.

Please don’t go is on the tip of my tongue, right next to Don’t you dare beg him to stay. I know I shouldn’t say the first thing. This isn’t the kind of moment for that. He’s not the kind of man for that.

I hold the door open for him, waiting for him to say something, anything, that will assure me that this isn’t the end after weeks’ worth of build-up.

Samuil stops at the threshold. “Next time I text you—” His voice is soft but commanding. “—you will respond.”

He’s gone before he even hears me say, “Okay.”