Page 19 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
It takes a second for the obvious to hit me.
Sunscreen.
Of course. He’s putting it on my face, and ensuring it doesn’t go in my eyes.
“That’s it,” he murmurs as I tilt my chin up into his touch.
He wipes the cream over my cheeks, and down the bridge of my nose. This is the most intimate thing that has ever been done to me. His finger on my upper lip, and under my eye is a depth of trust I didn’t even realise that I hadn’t given anyone.
With my eyes shut, I’m mesmerised by the path of his touch, his breath that I imagine I can feel on my hair, and the extreme vulnerability of not being able to see what he’s doing, or what to expect next.
His hands lift, and I wait, longing for what he promised. Whatever he wants to do to me.
I’m his doll. His to dress, protect, care for. Direct.
“Perfect.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You can open your eyes now.”
He’s stepped away, and my whole being slumps with disappointment. I disguise it with a smile. “Thank you. Can I go swim?”
“Should I call you little fish, instead?” he asks indulgently as he nods, but I’m already scurrying out of the house and onto the decking.
“What do you mean, instead?” The moment my feet touch the sand though, I squeal.
Feliks laughs, and doesn’t answer my question.
It’s burning hot, scorching the soles of my feet, and I hop in disbelief. It’s insanely hot!
“Such a soft creature,” Feliks says, calmly walking over the roasting sand.
The desire to watch his retreating back battles with the pain from my feet, and self-preservation wins out over thirst. I make a dash for the water, sprinting as fast as I can, my feet on fire, and when I reach the sea, it’s heaven.
The water laps at my feet and I groan with relief. But it’s not freezing, like the outdoor pools are at home in London. I take another step. It’s Goldilocks water, the temperature of bathwater when you’ve read two chapters and yawn sleepily.
Feliks splashes into the sea next to me.
“How are your feet not char-grilled?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Practice. You swimming?”
He’s already up to his waist, ahead of me, and my god, his tattooed, muscled back is as stunning as the view. All stark black lines and golden skin. He’s at home here, like he said.
An elegant dive and he emerges in motion, shaking the water from his hair and cutting through with easy strokes. I watch him, the sun on my skin, the water lapping at my ankles, the soft sand beneath my feet, and the salty scent of the ocean in my nose.
There’s a line further out where the turquoise near the beach deepens to dark-blue the colour of Feliks’ eyes. And I recognise why he seems like he was made out of this place. The golden sand his skin and the deep sea his eyes. The black of his hair and his tattoos is all his own though.
He stops and turns, treading water and smooths the hair out of his eyes.
“Come on. You wanted to swim,” he teases.
I did, but apparently, I want to look at him, and be touched by him even more.
“You’re distracting,” I mutter under my breath, but I follow him in, bracing myself for the inevitable cold… But unlike home, it’s not. It’s perfect.
The water envelops me, and in seconds I’m in and swimming, ducking my head under water and just the right amount of cool washes over me.
I love swimming anywhere for the joy of my body being held, weightless. There aren’t jarring knocks to my knees or my ankles when I swim as there are when I run. My boobs aren’t an inconvenience, in fact, nothing about my body is wrong in the water. I swear Taylor got all the graceful Love genes, and I got all the awkward ones.
I pause and look down through the perfectly clear water. I can even see the sand at the bottom.
