Page 72 of Toxic Temptation
My throat feels raw. Meanwhile, Kovan’s voice remains the same calm, velvet baritone that it’s always been.
“No one’s holding you hostage. You can leave anytime.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers. “I need to sleep, Kovan. I just worked a twenty-eight-hour shift and I am like the Walking fucking Dead.”
“So sleep.” He shrugs. “No one’s stopping you.”
“You are, actually. By being here.”
“There’s no bed in the second room,” he points out. “And Luka needs his space.”
“Yeah? Well, what aboutmyspace? You know—theperson who owns this apartment?”
“Why would you want space from your beloved boyfriend?” Laughter dances just underneath the lacquered surface of his tone.
I almost don’t believe my ears. The bastard is enjoying this.
And yes, maybe there’s a small—averysmall—part of me that’s enjoying it, too. Which is exactly why I need him out of my room, pronto.
“The armchair is big enough for both your body and ego.” I yank the pile of clothes off it and dump them on the floor. “You’re welcome to sleep here.”
“That’s an armchair?” His eyes go wide with mock surprise. “I thought it was a laundry basket.”
“Very funny. Truly, I’m in stitches. Tears in my ears. You’re a comedic talent without peer.”
He winks. “Thanks for noticing. We should establish our sides of the bed, don’t you think?”
“Great idea.” I point to the bed. “That’s my side.” Then I point to the armchair. “That’s yours. Sleep well, nighty-night!”
With that point made as firmly as I can make it, I turn around and busy myself making the bed, smoothing sheets that don’t need smoothing, fluffing pillows that don’t need fluffing. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? When do I ever make mybed? I roll out of it; I roll into it. Lather, rinse, repeat. The most I do is change the sheets every other week. I know, I know—I’m disgusting.
A thought occurs to me. I turn back around to face Kovan. “For purposes of Ms. Trunchbull, however?—”
“Who?”
“—we will say that my side is the right,” I finish. “Just in case she ever asks, weird as that would be. And just so we’re clear, these conversations are as familiar as we’re ever getting in this department. Copy that?”
His smile is ghost-light but devastating. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
For a moment, I’m not sure myself. “Telling you,” I decide. “Definitely telling you.”
“Very well.” He inclines his head. “I’ll respect your wishes, Dr. Fairfax. No bed talk—unless you invite me under the covers yourself.”
“Which will never, ever happen.”
“I should hope not. After the show you’ve put on tonight, you’d have tobegme to climb in.” His eyes are sparkling with taunting laughter. “On hands and knees, probably. And even then… Well, no promises.”
“You seem to be under the extremely mistaken impression that I want you.” I lift my chin. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“I see. And you keep staring at my forearms because you’re trying to figure out how to get arms like these yourself…?”
He flexes, and my mouth goes dry.
I turn my back on him so he can’t see the heat flooding my cheeks. “You certainly have an overactive imagination, Mr. Krayev. Not to mention an unhealthy sense of sexual entitlement. I hate to burst your bubble, but not every woman who sees you wants to get in your pants.”
“That hasn’t been my experience.”
My eyes snap to his involuntarily. His tone is playful, but his eyes hold sin and many dark promises I shouldn’t want him to keep. If we lived in Jane Austen’s time, Kovan Krayev would be called arake, and he’d be more than deserving of the title.
