Page 9

“Yes.”

“You could’ve asked my name.”

“You were busy keeping me alive. It seemed rude to interrupt.”

I laugh before I can stop it, and his eyes come up to my mouth and stay there for a second too long.

“Vera Belova,” I say, and hold out my hand across the table.

He looks at it. Then he takes it, carefully, as though there are rules for this no one ever told him about.

“Nikolai Sokolov.”

His hand is enormous and warm and dry, the ink running over his knuckles and down into his fingers, and I can already picture those patterns against my bare flesh. I don’t let go when a handshake should end. Neither does he.

We talk. He asks how long I’ve worked here, and I tell him nine years, since I was seventeen and Rosa needed someone to scrub sheet pans on Saturdays. He asks about the honey, and I tell him about the man at the Green City Market who keeps two jars of buckwheat back for me every other week. He asks how I take my coffee, and I tell him, and he repeats it once, checking that he has it right.

He doesn’t talk much about himself. When he does, it’s short and concrete. He doesn’t sleep past five a.m. He hates cilantro. He has never in his life owned a houseplant.

I make a second pot. He drinks half a cup and forgets the rest because he’s watching me.

When I push my hair back, his eyes follow my hand, and I lose the end of what I was saying. His right hand is on the table, close enough that I could touch it again, and I move my cup out of the way because it feels illegal to be this close and not touch him.

The clock over the register says ten thirty-one.

I should tell him to go home, but I don’t want to. Maybe I’m being selfish, but I’m not beating myself up over it.

For five days, I’ve wondered what his mouth feels like, which is five days longer than is reasonable for a stranger who bled on my floor. I stand up and walk around the table.

He looks up at me. He lifts his hand as if to touch my hair, then settles it back against his knee. I’ve spent the whole evening wondering what he wants. Standing this close, I can see it.

I put my hand along his jaw. His stubble scrapes my palm, and he turns his face a little, enough to keep my hand there when I almost take it away.

His mouth is softer than I expected. His right hand comes up to my cheek and cups it tenderly. His thumb stops beneath my ear, and he draws back just enough to look at me.

“Vera…” His voice is thick with want; there’s no mistaking it, and my body responds with rock-hard nipples and damp blossoming in my panties.

“I want this,” I whisper.

His pupils widen as his hand slides around the back of my neck, warm and strong, holding me still in case I change my mind. I won’t.

“You don’t know me.”

“I’ll learn.”

His scar trembles when his lips curve into a small smile. “You might not like what you see.”

“Nikolai, there isn’t a chance in hell of that happening.”

The smile morphs into something wistful and he disguises it by kissing me slowly. I part my lips and taste coffee and honey cake on his tongue. Without making a conscious decision, I move between his legs and sit on his lap, and it’s the boldest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I kiss him again, harder, because my body still wants more, and the wanting is leaving me breathless.

His hand slides beneath the apron and tugs my blouse out from the waistband of my pants. My skin burns at his touch, and I let out a small gasp against his lips.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

“No.” If he stops now, nothing will satisfy the throbbing between my legs.