I blinked slowly up at the unfamiliar ceiling and watched the lazy spin of a ceiling fan pushing warm Caribbean air through the room. Sunlight spilled in through the wide-open balcony doors, turning the white walls gold.
For a few quiet seconds my brain simply enjoyed the moment, because it turns out waking up in a luxury villa overlooking the ocean is an objectively pleasant experience.
Then my memory came back online.
The mask.
The yacht.
The bet.
Sasha.
A heavily tattooed, muscular arm was draped over my waist and one of his legs was loosely hooked over mine. His broad, warm chest pressed against my back, makingit clear he had no intention of letting me wander off unsupervised during the night.
Apparently this also extended into the morning, as I could tell from the way his hand flexed slightly when I shifted.
I tried a small, experimental wiggle. The arm around my waist tightened instantly. Behind me, Sasha made a low, raspy sound in my ear that made my pussy clench.
How was everything this man did so fucking hot?
“You trying to escape?” His voice was rough with sleep, carrying more of a Russian accent than usual.
“I’m waking up,” I whispered.
“You’re wiggling.”
“That’s how waking up works.”
“Suspicious,” he grumbled.
I rolled my eyes and turned my head slightly to glance back at him over my shoulder. One of his eyes was open halfway; it was a brilliant shade of gray-blue and looked deeply unimpressed with the concept of morning.
“Are you not comfortable?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It isexactlythe point.”
“Am I not allowed to go to the bathroom?!”
“Fiiiine,” he groaned, like he was making some kind of big concession.
I sighed and carefully disentangled my legs from the sheets, concentrating as if I were defusing a small bomb, before finally managing to sit up on the edge of the bed.
Sasha slowly pushed himself up onto one elbow behind me. His hair was a little messy and the chain around his neck glinted in the morning light. Muscles rippled under his tattooed skin and my brain temporarily forgot every intelligent thought it had ever possessed.
This was, objectively speaking, not helpful.
God, this man was handsome.
I forced my attention away from the extremely shirtless Russian crime lord and turned toward the small duffle bag sitting near the wall.
Surrounded by all this lavishness and luxury, it looked ratty and quite pitiful. And yet, it was all I had. Which posed the next problem, a practical one this time — clothes.
I unzipped the bag and looked inside.
Jeans, two T-shirts, and one dress that had absolutely no business being worn anywhere near armed men or breakfast, as well as my sneakers.