He stares at me, looking genuinely confused. “You want me to give a stranger my 200,000 euro watch?”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m Anya.”
“Knowing your name doesn’t make you less of a stranger.”
I take a seat on the edge of his bed, leaning back. “But I’m pretty. Doesn’t that count for something?”
He blinks, and I watch as a deep red flush starts to climb his neck. “Yes. You are. But I’m not your boyfriend. And if you have a boyfriend, what you’re doing is wrong.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Are you some kind of traditional man? Like, if I have a boyfriend, I can’t even talk to other men?”
“If you were my woman,” he says, his voice dropping into a serious, intense tone that makes my stomach flip, “I wouldn’t want to see you with another man. Because that man would be dead. I’d hope your boyfriend has the same mindset as me.”
The intensity is intoxicating. “Well,” I say, “I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
His face goes bright red. “I…what? I’m sorry, I…”
“Are you shy?” I tease.
“No, I’m not…I just…” He starts to stammer, running a hand through his wet hair.
“You’re totally shy. You’re blushing, Taras.”
“I’m not…” He stops himself and sighs. “Okay. I think I’m making you uncomfortable. My watch, please.”
I hold it up, dangling it from my fingertips. “Come and get it.”
“Please hand it over.”
“I said come get it.”
He moves forward and reaches for it, but I pull it back at the last second. He lunges, loses his balance, and we both tumble onto the bed. He catches himself just in time, his hands landing on either side of my head as he hovers over me.
“Oh,” I breathe, looking up at him. “You’re a big boy.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll get off…”
I don’t let him. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down closer.
“I don’t want to crush you, Anya,” he whispers, keeping his weight braced on his arms. “I’m too heavy.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
“I will. I’m huge, and you’re small.”
“Then keep your weight on your arms like you’re doing.”
He lowers himself just an inch, his chest brushing mine. I can feel the heat radiating off him. Up close, his tattoos and scars are even more impressive. I reach out, tracing a mark on his shoulder. “You have a lot of scars and tattoos.”
He stares down at me, completely still.
“Does this hurt?” I ask, touching a scar on his ribs.
“Not anymore.”
“This tattoo is beautiful,” I murmur, my hand sliding lower.
“Can you please not touch me?”