“A woman who is scared, furious, and still standing here.”
“A woman who made one stupid choice in Moscow and apparently hasn’t stopped paying for it.”
Roman’s eyes narrow. “One?”
I should not have said that.
The memory of the piano hits me hot and immediate. His mouth between my legs. His hand in my hair. My body shaking on the black lacquer while I tried and failed to hate him enough to stop.
Heat climbs my throat.
Roman sees it. “That’s what this is?” he asks quietly. “Regret?”
“Yes.” The lie comes easily.
He takes one step closer. “Look at me and say that again.”
I do. Or try to.
The problem is that he’s too close now, and my body has always betrayed me first where he’s concerned. I can smell him.
I can see the pulse at the base of his throat. I can see the exact moment he realizes I’m struggling and decides not to make it easier.
“Say it,” he says.
“I regret?—”
My voice fails me.
His mouth almost moves.
Not a smile. Worse.
“Right,” he says softly.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look pleased with yourself.”
He steps closer until my hips touch the counter behind me. “Then stop giving me reasons.”
My hands flatten on the edge of the stone. “You’re impossible.”
“And you still came.”
“That was not for this.”
“No,” he says. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
I glare at him.
He lifts one hand and brushes his knuckles against my jaw. Just once. Light enough that I could pretend he never touched me at all if my whole body did not immediately tense under it.
I hate that. I hate him. I hate the part of me already leaning into the touch.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.