The Russian's Acquistion(33)
He didn’t want to leave her—which stunned him—but she had to be tender. He hadn’t been as gentle as he would have been if he’d known… if he’d known…
His skull threatened to split under the pressure of conflicting imperatives. He had to leave her. For now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CLAIR WOKE IN an unfamiliar place, mind blanking with alarm before her memory rushed back. She sat up, still in Aleksy’s bed, still naked and very much no longer a virgin. Anxiety quickly faded to relief as she saw she was alone. She couldn’t have dealt with him and her mental disarray. Stunned disbelief bounced off crazy elation and crashed into an inferno of embarrassment.
Hugging her knees, she tucked a hot face into them and tried to countenance how she’d let Aleksy do all that to her. She hadn’t grown up with a lot of affection; nor did she possess any long-denied, deep-seated needs for physical closeness.
Yet she’d reveled in Aleksy’s caresses, giving herself over to him without inhibition.
Her heart wrenched as she recalled that the singular experience had cost her his respect. What kind of throwback had such archaic views on virginity? His judgment and contempt had hurt, not that she should care what he thought, but a weak part of her did. She wanted to know he’d enjoyed their coming together as much as she had.
Physical satisfaction was secondary for him, she knew. He’d taken her to strike at Victor and he’d walked out right after, his interest in her gone with the same lightning speed he’d developed it. No one had ever wanted her for the long haul. It was silly to imagine that a man like him, who could have anybody, would be any different.
The door creaked, startling her.
He caught her unprepared for the impact he had on her. He was still wearing the crushed pullover and snug jeans from last night, but he wore confidence like a visible aura so radiant she needed sunglasses. His hair was damp, the short cut combed uncompromisingly to the side. She knew how those soft strands smelled. How they felt between her fingers. Against her breasts.
His gaze locked with hers as though he read the memories she tried to repress. She died a little at being incapable of locking him out, nipples hardening with remembrance of his mouth, loins pooling with excitement for him.
It was distressing to react this strongly, to relive these sensations without him even touching her. It was a massive invasion of privacy. Against her will, her mind zeroed in on that safe moment when they’d been unequivocally linked. He’d been a lover then. She’d felt cherished, not bare and self-conscious like now. Everything in her yearned toward that memory like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun.
But that man was gone. This was the man with the grudge. To him she was a pawn on a chessboard to be tipped over and taken with ice-cold deliberation. And he’d done it.
This was the get up and get out moment, she supposed, her pulse racing.
“Hungry?” He sounded ironic, his deep voice abrading her taut nerves.
Was he taunting her for skipping dinner in favor of sating herself with him? It was cruel. She dug into her deepest reserves of composure, the way she’d done when the school bullies had taunted her.
“I could eat.” She lifted her chin and kept her gaze steady, ignoring that she was on fire inside. Other women were capable of relegating sex to something as mundane as chatting over coffee. She needed to be exactly that unaffected. She needed to get this awkward morning after finished and get out of here. “Why? Do you not know how to boil your own egg? You need me to do it?”