I wanted a shower.

As much as I’d like to be that girl who provides her guy an all-you-can-eat buffet downtown and doesn’t bat an eyelash about hoisting up her panties and running errands afterward, I was not that girl.

Being fuzzy headed, floaty and loose after our sexcapades did not negate the need for a hose-down. Plus UTI’s are no joke. If I wanted him to eat at my buffet again in the near future—and I did—then the place needed to be spic and span.

Now, I had to bring up the topic. Gracefully.

…

…

…

Try not to laugh yourself into apoplexy.

“What’s wrong?”

I glanced at Luca, finding him glaring at me with suspicion. We were walking to my car. Or at least, I was walking to my car. He was walking next to me as we were about to go grab a bite to eat and presumably get to know each other better.

“Nothing.” My voice was too high.

He released a frustrated breath, gritting his teeth. I could see he didn’t believe me and was likely jumping to the wrong conclusions.

“I’m really, really good.” I placed a hand on his arm, stopping him so he’d look at me.

“This is why Andrei didn’t touch Natasha,” he murmured bitterly, then lifted his hardened voice to address me. “It was too soon and you’re regretting it.”

“It wasn’t too soon.” I flexed my fingers on his arm.

“Then tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Sure. Okay.” He gave his head a subtle shake, the dimming of his eyes communicating volumes more than his words.

“Dammit, Luca.” I grabbed his other arm, frowning at him severely before lifting to my toes and whispering harshly in his ear, “I need a shower, okay? Are you satisfied? I was trying to figure out how to bring it up. And I didn’t want to be unsophisticated about it and say, I need a shower because it’s good hygiene after oral stimulation of the vulva and clitoris.”

Luca’s body tensed, a short sound of surprise—maybe also humor—erupted from his chest, and his broad palms pressed against my lower back, holding me in place.

“So you see,” I continued, “rather than discuss or make comparisons between the microbe content in human saliva versus—I don’t know—a dog, I thought I’d try to gracefully suggest we go back to my place to change.” I leaned away to catch his eyes, but not very far because he continued to press my body against his.

The side of his mouth was curved in an appreciative but small smile and his eyes were once again bright, almost merry. All semblance of his earlier frustration now absent.

“Don’t change,” he said, his gaze drifting over my forehead, nose, and lips.

“But I need to change.” I grimaced. “Like I said, I need a shower.”

“That’s not what I meant. We’ll go to my place, I’ll order in, you take a shower. Change your clothes, fine. But,” his eyes met mine and they looked distinctly hazy, “don’t change yourself. Never try to be other than you are. You are perfection, just as you are.”

My eyes widened and my grimace morphed into something else, something plagued with worry. “Perfection is a lot of pressure. I can’t live up to perfect. Not even in mathematical terms.”

“Mathematical terms?”

“Like a perfect number. When the sum of its divisors—except the number itself—equals the given number.”

His smile grew, though his brow furrowed. “You lost me. Math has never been a strength.”

“Ah!” I shifted out of his grip, turning towards my car. “Are you telling me you can’t math?”

Luca caught my hand before I moved too far away, entwining our fingers together as we walked side-by-side. The gesture made my breath quicken, my step falter, and my heart do wonderful, achy things. Perhaps even more wonderful than when his mouth had devoured my body.

“No. I can’t math.”

“Don’t worry, gorgeous. You still have your looks. And you’re well spoken.” I tried to maintain a serious expression but lost it when I spied his narrowed glare.

He laughed at me and I laughed with abandon. Though my laughter was tinged with hysteria because, and I know this was odd, I’d never held hands with another person before, not even past boyfriends. It just never came up. Funny how such a simple, affectionate display could twist me into such devastating and beautiful knots.

I sensed Luca study me again. “Still thinking about the shower?” he guessed, likely picking up on my odd change in breathing.

I shook my head, deciding to answer with complete honesty this time. “No. I was just thinking how nice your hand feels.” I swallowed, forcing myself to meet his gaze, finishing softly, “How nice it feels in my hand.”

An immediate grin split his features, which he quickly attempted to subdue, clearing his throat. “See? Was that so hard?”

“What?” I asked breathlessly, still feeling winded by the sensation of his masculine fingers sliding against mine.

Luca wrapped his arm around me and kissed my temple. He bent, nuzzling and whispering against my ear, “Being you.”

* * *

I drove my rust bucket, following Luca on his motorcycle and enjoying every moment of the drive, especially when we hit two red lights and he was forced to straddle his bike.

You straddle that bike, professor. You straddle it so hard.

Heh. Good times.

My ex-professor lived in a small two-bedroom house near the university, in one of the oldest areas of the city. The sidewalks were lined with giant, sloping trees and several of the houses had stained glass windows facing the streets.

He explained, as we walked to his door, that his house used to be an outbuilding for the much larger, grander mansion on the next street over. But that the property had been divided over time so that more houses could be built and a neighborhood could develop.

Despite being small, his home was exceptionally and tastefully decorated. The interior screamed sophisticated man-cave. You know, of the sipping cognac, classical music, and a smoking jacket variety. Basically, the room used by the host for Masterpiece Theatre (not theater, theatre).

Worn leather sofa, ancient looking Kashmir rug, dark wood trim against white walls, antique furniture, and inset bookcases added to the overall ambiance of cozy elegance. Additionally, and oddly, the front room had a fireplace the size of a walk-in closet.

“Nice fireplace,” I said automatically, unable to miss the massive, redbrick chimney, the hearth as tall as I was. It spanned nearly the entire wall. In fact, several of me could fit inside it.

“Yeah, it’s unusual for a fireplace in America, I know. My sister—who’s the expert on these kinds of things—says this building might have been the servant’s kitchen. That fireplace was used to cook meals for hundreds of people. There’s another fireplace in the back of the house, much smaller.”

I lifted an eyebrow at a bookcase to the left but still within the hearth, my gaze also snagging on the wall to my left which was inlayed with shelves from floor to ceiling, and each of those shelves was laden with hundreds of books.

“That’s a lot of books.” I tried not to salivate, though my fingers itched to touch them, pet their spines and smell their pages.

“It is,” he agreed evenly.

I didn’t have to look at Luca to know he was smile-smirking.

“I love you,” I murmured distractedly.

“Pardon?”

“Shh,” I waved Luca off without looking at him, “I was talking to the books. Maybe you could give us a moment?”

A rumbly chuckle met my ears, followed by a sigh. I heard his footsteps approach just before his hands slid around my middle, and he placed a lingering kiss on the sensitive skin beneath my ear.

His hot breath spilled over my neck as he said, “Sure. I’ll go get you a towel for your shower. Try not to molest my books while I’m gone.”

“I make no promises.”

I knew he was still grinning as he left and that made me grin, even enraptured as I was by the ancient tomes before me.

Apparently, Luca owned every version of every piece of notable Russian literature ever written. In multiple languages. Beautiful leather spines in burgundy, navy, and forest green called to me, the gold leaf lettering glittering in the late afternoon sun filtering through stained glass windows.

To me the room had the picturesque aura of what I imagined an old church or a monastery would possess, the quiet sacredness, the tranquil purity. How I would love to spend evenings curled up on the inviting sofa by a small fire, tucked under one his wool blankets, reading Chekhov or Pushkin. Or maybe Luca would read them to me in the original Russian.

No.

That was a bad idea.

It was very likely I would trade sexual favors for Luca reading to me in Russian. And I’d enjoy every minute of it.

“What are you in the mood for?” Luca’s voice reached me from wherever he was, presumably looking for a towel.

“Poetry and fellatio,” I said under my breath, tracing my finger over the spine of Pushkin’s collected poetry.

“I didn’t catch that.” Luca appeared in the doorway to my left.

I released a pained sigh, turning to him. “I really like your books.”

“Thank you.” He gave me a secretive smile, which widened the longer he studied my expression, which was likely wistful. “Let me show you where the shower is.”

He turned, motioning for me to follow, which I did, somehow not surprised to find he’d placed—or someone had placed—a bookshelf along the wall and close to the ceiling. And there again, in the bathroom, I was met with more books.

“This is the guest bathroom,” he explained, shoving his hands in his pockets as he lingered outside the door.

“I see.” I took a moment to read several of the spines, all contemporary fiction, before turning to face him. “Thank you. I’ll try to be quick.”

“Take your time.” He nodded tightly, his eyes moving quickly down and then up my body as he swallowed. “Do you have a taste for anything?”

I considered him and his question, a traitorous your abdominal muscles, biceps, and thighs springing to my mind, but I knew he meant actual food. Not man food.

Not. Man. Food.

“I’ll eat anything,” I said on a rush, feeling a slow, creeping blush spreading upwards to claim my cheeks. Gripping the edge of the door, I pushed it forward, forcing him to take a step back. “And I promise I’ll be fast.”

Behind the closed door, I released a heavy sigh and stripped. I was grateful to be alone so I could collect my thoughts and hormones, grateful for the shower for obvious reasons, also grateful I’d held myself in check and hadn’t (yet) thrown myself at Luca and his big . . . library.

* * *

“You are completely insane.”

“Because I make an argument for counter-enlightenment?” Luca’s elbow rested on the back of the sofa and he was biting the tip of his thumb, his wolfish stare twinkling at me, as though he was enjoying my display of temper.

“Because you misrepresent nihilism as counter-enlightenment and are only doing so because you are attempting to irritate me.”

Luca grinned, his eyes growing hooded as they dropped to my lips. “Are you irritated?”

“You know I’m irritated.” I arched my eyebrows in challenge. We’d finished dinner hours ago, and had been sitting on the sofa, facing each other on opposite sides. My feet were tucked under my body as I sipped on my second glass of wine.

And let me tell you, this was really good wine. Really good.

His grin spread, as though irritating me had been his heart’s desire. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Admit you’re wrong.” I glowered at him. Or at least I tried to glower at him. It was hard to glower at Luca.

His look was equal parts teasing and skeptical. “That’s not what you want.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Yes. I know you better than you think. Remember, I’ve read all your papers.”

“And I’ve attended most of your lectures. And seen you in leather pants.”

He ignored that, continuing as though I hadn’t spoken. “You want me to tell you that your proclivity and bias towards romanticism makes you blind to the—”

I scoffed loudly, inelegantly, setting my drink on the table behind the sofa and squeezed my eyes shut, “I’m not listening to this. You’re just being contrary to be contrary. If you continue in this manner I shall sing Pirates of Penzance very loudly until you cease and desist.”

Luca’s deep laughter met my ears before I’d finished my threat. He reached for me, tugging me forward and placing a kiss on my mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, catching my bottom lip with a gentle bite. A thrill raced through me, sparks of happiness tightened my lungs, desire pooling low in my abdomen. But instead of pulling me closer, he set me away.

I peeked at him, opening only one eye, and found him grinning at me. “You seem to be smiling a lot.” I couldn’t keep the discontent from my tone.

“You make me smile.” Luca was biting the tip of his thumb again, his happy expression melting away any disappointment I felt about the laconic nature of our kiss.

Opening my other eye, I squinted at him. “Tell me something.”

“Ask me anything.”

“That night, during the first week of the semester, when you stopped by my restaurant. Who were you with? Those people at your table?”

Some of the mirth and good vibes drained from Luca’s features. “That was my family.”

“Are you Russian? I mean, are you from Russia?”

He nodded, though he said, “Yes. And no.”

“Which is it?”

“I mean, I am Russian. My mother was born in Switzerland, but she is Russian. My father was born in Ukraine, but he is also Russian. Both sets of my grandparents left Russia in the early days of the USSR. I was born in Switzerland.”

“Oh.” I sat straighter in my seat, trying to assemble the puzzle pieces while I volunteered, “I was born in Springfield.”

“Illinois?”

“No. Springfield, Transylvania.”

He flashed an amused smile, tilting his head just slightly.

I was pleased to see his good humor return. “So, Switzerland?”

“Yes.”

“And? Did you grow up there?”

“Not all the time.”

“You’re being vague, Luca.” I lifted my eyebrows at him and pointed at his face. “Stop being vague.”

He expelled an audible breath, glancing over my shoulder. “Fine. My grandparents own—or they owned—a diamond mine in Russia, sold it to the government and invested the money in global markets. They’ve done well for themselves, investing the money.”

“Why don’t you sound happy about that?”

He didn’t look happy about it either, much of the light had left his eyes.

Luca shrugged, his gaze moving up and to the left. “I see the world clearly, now that I am older, and I’m disappointed by the country of my grandfathers. Russia used to be great, a nation of philosophers, brilliant thinkers, artists, and scientists. Not anymore. It hasn’t been great for a long time, not since Stalin purged the thinking class. Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t murder the bourgeoisie, he murdered anyone with talent. Do you know what that does to a society? I find it’s difficult to be proud of my heritage, of a culture I now consider mediocre at best, monstrous at worst. Russia is irrevocably crippled, stained by its totalitarianism—to which it still subscribes, like sheep—and rivers flow, the sky weeps with the blood of what once made it great.”

Despite the stark nature of the topic, I found myself falling under the spell of his poetic prose. Unthinkingly, I said on a sigh, “You should write a book.”

His eyes cut to mine and bemusement lingered behind them. “Actually, I am.”

“You are?” I bounced in my seat—just once—excited by the prospect of Luca writing a book.

“Yes. And it’s horribly depressing. It’s about a professor in Stalin’s Russia—USSR—and everyone dies.”

I’m a sick, sick individual, because the description made me smile with enthusiasm. “That sounds awesome. Please tell me there is doomed love.”

He chuckled. “Yes. There is a tragic love story. I doubt anyone will read it. But it’s a story I feel is important in order for the West to understand modern Russia.”

“Can I read it?” I blurted, before I could think better of the request.

He didn’t give me even a second to regret the overly familiar and downright invasive entreaty, nodding once and saying, “You may. If you wish.”

“I do wish. I wish very, very hard.”

“You might be the only one who does read it.” He regarded me with what I recognized as open affection, causing my heart to do another of those achy, tight, hot flutters. “Literature and philosophy, questions of the soul and the purpose of being, these are dying pastimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s no money to be made in explaining the motivations of dead artists, in teaching people to think critically, carefully, to know themselves. Departments like medicine and engineering—the essentials, as they’re called—bring most of the cash flow into the university, subsidizing departments like mine. If we can’t write a book, secure grants or endowments—which are very rare—then we’re moved to adjunct positions, with no benefits or security.”

“Have you? Applied for grants?”

“Yes. Tons. I’ve received some—smaller ones, but still enough to cover my publishing and writing time—but not nearly enough to justify my existence.”

I frowned. “Are you, I mean, are they moving you to an adjunct—”

“No.” He shook his head, an unmistakable bitterness flavoring his words as his gaze moved to his glass of vodka. “My family is quite wealthy and have donated an endowed chair in my name to the university. My position is very secure.”

Studying him, the undercurrent of frustration behind his words and the line of his mouth, I pressed, “And that bothers you?”

His eyes cut to mine. “Of course it bothers me. I put myself through school—partially with academic scholarships, yes—but also by working the whole time, paying my own way. I didn’t discover that my job offer was contingent on the endowed chair until months after I’d accepted the position.”

“Why didn’t you leave? Go elsewhere?”

“Because the endowment doesn’t just pay my salary. It saved half the tenured positions in the department,” he admitted quietly, looking solemn, and maybe a little sad.

“Hmm.” I studied Luca, recognizing the fierce disappointment in himself for what is was. He’d clearly wanted to make his own way in the world, separate from his past, but—unbeknownst to him—his family had taken that decision away.

However. “But hasn’t that always been the way of art?”

“What do you mean?” Luca regarded me over the rim of his glass, lifting an eyebrow in question.

“Haven’t industrialists paid the salary of artists for centuries? And before that, rich merchants sponsored them? And before that, the masses did so through taxes and tithes paid to governments and churches? Hasn’t each global society subsidized art and artists? Been patrons for philosophers, authors, and poets? Isn’t that just the way of the world?”

Luca frowned thoughtfully, still looking unhappy.

I gave him a small smile. “I’ll graduate with a degree in electrical engineering this coming spring, and after that I want to get a master’s degree and a professional engineer license. Do you know why?”

“Because you’re good at the math,” he deadpanned.

“No.” I laughed, shaking my head at his dour expression. “That’s not why. Though I am good at the math. But other than that, other than enjoying math and science and being pretty darn good at them both, I want to make money. I want to have a job where I can support myself and my reading habit.”

A wrinkle of curiosity and confusion appeared between his eyebrows. “You may enjoy math and science, but you love literature. I see it, I know you do.”

“You’re right. I love to read, but I’m not a writer. I love philosophy, but I’m not a philosopher. I love art, but I can’t paint, I can’t draw or sculpt. I love movies and the theater, but I’m a terrible actor. Therefore, I’m a patron,” I finished proudly.

As I spoke his expression cleared, his eyes growing sober with understanding and—if I was reading him correctly—with respect.

I continued, “Don’t worry, the world will always need art, and artists, and literature. Just like it will always need industry and medicine. One is not more or less important than the other, at least I don’t think so. Why do we have art? To make life beautiful, to understand each other. And why do we have science? To make life easier.”

“And you don’t think you’re a philosopher?” Luca’s eyes moved between mine, a quiet kind of appreciation making his features even more handsome.

That made me grin. “I’m not. But sometimes I pretend to be when I’m debating with my—” I cut myself off, catching the word boyfriend before it left my mouth, and swallowed instead.

Luca’s gaze flared, and grew intent, watchful. “With your what?” he asked slowly, setting his drink to one side but never taking his eyes from mine.

“With my lover,” I said with faux-haughtiness.

His eyes flared again. “Not your boyfriend?”

“No. You’re not a boy.”

“False.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Fine,” he leaned forward, his gaze dropping to my lips, “call me lyubov moya.”

My lashes fluttered at his use of Russian, other parts of me fluttered as well. “Um, what-what does that mean?”

“And I’ll call you malen'kaya lisa.”

“Oh my,” I breathed, attempting to swallow. “That better mean badass.”

“It means little fox.” His voice dropped, his hand sliding from my knee, and up my skirt. “Which I believe is very apt.”

“Okay,” I agreed, because . . . sexy. Like a fox.

“Malen'kaya lisa,” he whispered, bending to my neck before whispering, “Lyubov moya.”

“Yes.” I gripped his shoulders for balance, figuratively and literally.

I was sitting on the couch, theoretically in no danger of falling off said couch, but I was also dizzy.

So. Dizzy.

Things between us were moving quickly and my heart was full speed ahead. I didn’t know if I could put on the brakes, even if I wanted to. But I didn’t want to. What I wanted was more—of him, of this, of us—and I wanted it all now.

Was he too old for me? Was I too young for him? Would the differences in our ages and circumstances, life experience, and bank accounts ultimately prove too much to overcome?

Maybe more importantly, was he my kind of nice?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

But, ultimately, what did it matter?

“Anna, spend the night.” His fingers inched higher, dancing lightly over my skin, then retreating. “Spend the night with me. We’ll take things slow, but,” he placed a kiss on my jaw, “stay with me.” Another on my chin. “Wear my shirt, let me watch the morning caress your hair and flawless skin, read the paper with me in bed, let me—”

“Yes to everything after the word Anna,” I blurted, eliciting a delicious, rumbly chuckle, which ended abruptly as I palmed the front of his pants and stroked.

Damn, he felt good.

If Russian literature and tragic novels had taught me one thing it was this: disappointment and heartache might be around the next corner. But adventure, love, joy, and happiness—the living of a rich, meaningful life—was now.

And let us not forget about the ever present possibility of a nearby, but yet undetected blood illness.

Yes.

Better to make out with my hot, brainy ex-professor now, just in case a blood illness is lurking around the corner!

“I think you are going to be the death of me, Andrei.” I captured one of his hands, moving his fingers under my shirt, encouraging him to palm my breast, and moaning when he did so.

“No.” His gaze grew impossibly dark, his eyes now a deep indigo, holding mine captive.

“No?” I cupped his jaw, placing a fervent kiss on the corner of his mouth, wanting his lips on mine.

“Not death, Natasha.” His words held a dangerous edge, as though the reins of his restraint were near breaking, yet he managed to whisper harshly, “I suspect we will be the life of each other,” just before he claimed me with a soul deep, heart recalibrating kiss.

And I knew, my course had been irrevocably altered. My future reshaped.

Nothing in my life would ever be the same.