Page 39 of The Gentleman

He turned too quickly—like one more second might crack his control.

The tick of the kitchen clock kept time on the distance between them.

“Leonid...” What was she going to say?

“Kat.” The way he said her name as he looked at her—low, almost pained—made her cross her arms across her stomach. “Keeping you alive. That’s all that matters.” His jaw worked. “Everything else is just... noise.”

She saw the shift—the operative locking back into place.

Maybe that was safer. For both of them.

“Bathroom’s ensuite. Grab any clothes you need.”

“Thank you.” She meant it for more than just the offer of clothing.

He nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Get some sleep, Katarina.”

18

Leo stepped onto the balcony,the night air striking his overheated skin.

The kiss still burned through him—her taste, her soft gasp against his mouth, while London stretched beneath him—metallic and indifferent, streaked with the orange glow of traffic and street lamps.

He swilled vodka in a crystal tumbler. No ice—he needed the burn tonight, needed it sharp enough to scrape away the ache lodged behind his ribs.

He took a sip—the sting sharp against the back of his throat, as clean and biting as a winter morning in Moscow. A taste of home. Russian vodka. The only kind that mattered. His free hand curled around the railing, knuckles pale.

Behind him, through tinted glass and shadows, Kat slept in his bed. His room. His sheets.

He shut his eyes, as if that could erase the image. It wasn’t the kiss that wrecked him—it was everything behind it. Years of restraint. All the silent wanting. She’d looked at him like he was gravity—something to hold on to while everything else slipped.

Another swallow.

He didn’t know which was worse—how badly he wanted her, or how dangerous it would be if he let himself have her.

A muted sound behind made him turn.

Kat stood in the doorway, her newly shorn hair sleep-mussed, drowning in his charcoal cashmere sweater. The sleeves hung past her fingertips, the hem skimming her thighs. Moonlight glazed her legs in pale silver.

His last thread of control stretched, ready to snap.

“I can’t sleep,” Her voice was husky

His fingers solidified around his glass. “Me neither.”

She stepped up beside him, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of his soap on her skin. The concrete beneath his feet was suddenly less real.

“Your place is immaculate,” she said, nodding toward the darkened interior. “Everything in its place.”

“Force of habit.” He offered her his glass.

Her fingers grazed his, a brief touch, but it seared right through him. She lifted the glass to her lips, mouth touching exactly where his had been. A small gesture, but it felt more dangerous than the firefight they’d barely escaped.

“Do you remember Oslo?” She handed back the glass.

His pulse kicked. “Every detail.”

“I was terrified.” She leaned against the railing, eyes on the glittering city below. “Not that I would’ve admitted it then.”

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