ASH WAS ENJOYING THIS getting to know each other thing. It was nice to just talk, and she got the impression Mischa wasn’t just doing it out of some sense of obligation or need to put on a good front around their relationship.

She was disappointed when he stood, but she liked watching him move, even something as simple as walking across the room. He had the grace of a panther. Sleek, composed, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. “Tell me more about you.” She was doing whatever she could to keep the conversation away from her. Every time she delved into her personal life, she slid toward boring or depressing, and she wasn’t in the mood for either tonight.

“That’s an open-ended question. I could skim over the important stuff, and dive right into the deep, but I might scare you off. Or I could skim the surface, talk about my favorite movies and foods, but then you’d feel like I was glossing over the real details.”

“I was thinking you’d tell me whatever came to mind first.”

He gave her a half smile and sat next to her again, close enough his knees touched hers. “You really don’t want that. Point me in a direction.”

Crap. She didn’t know what to say. “You could start with where your tattoos came from. Most have a story, don’t they?”

“Most do.” He stripped off his shirt, and tossed it aside.

She didn’t expect that, but there was no way she was complaining. His naked torso was a work of art in more ways than one. Splashes of vibrant color intertwined with more faded images, all decorating lines of definition that would have made one of Michelangelo’s statue’s envious. She clenched her hand to keep from tracing down the center of his chest, along his abs, and over the trail of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his shorts.

She forced her gaze back to his face and realized he was watching her study him, lazy grin fixed firmly in place.

He worked his hand under hers, loosening her fist, and loosely grasping her wrist. “This one right here”—he drew her finger along a sideways figure-eight—“is Ouroboros.”

On closer inspection she realized it wasn’t a simple line, it was an intricate dragon, the head eating its own tail. “I know that one. Eternity, or something, right?”

“Close enough. For me, it’s more like completeness. When one journey ends, another begins.”

The soft hint of accent was back in his voice. The rasp of Russian. It mingled with the heat of his skin against hers, blurring the world around them, and keeping her focus on him. “That’s all sorts of Zen.”

“I’m a Zen guy.” His voice was softer but more distinct. “Which one do you want to know about next?”

She didn’t think she could pick. Each was more stunning or unique than the design she saw before it, but underneath it all, she saw a jungle of scars. She dragged her thumb across a patch of paler skin on his right ribs. “How did you do this?”

He chuckled. “Bit it learning to slide on a rail about five feet higher than I should have been practicing on.” He took her hand again, and pulled her to her feet as he stood. “This one here was an exposed rebar stake on an abandoned building.” He intertwined his fingers with hers and trailed along a scar running down his side.

“And this one?” She followed one line to the next, dipping below the waist of his shorts.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, and held her hand in place, not letting her dip lower, but not pushing her away. “Appendix burst when I was seventeen.” His voice was strained.

When she looked up, he was watching her again, with an intensity she could drown in. Her brain stalled, and any words she had stuck in her throat.

He turned her hand over, and followed the crisscross of pale lines on the inside of her arm. Her gut dropped into her shoes. Another detail about her past that she wasn’t prepared to share.

He moved his thumb to her bottom lip instead, and her discomfort vanished beneath a surge of electricity. He pressed lightly on the corner of her mouth, on the mole that marred her smile. Her mom called it a beauty mark. Her father pointed out it was just an ugly brown spot. More self-doubt crept in, and she tried to pull away. He slid his hand to her neck, holding her tight, keeping his thumb in place.

“My grandmother used to tell me, Все разнообразие, вся прелесть, вся красота жизни слагается из тени и света.” The Russian rolled off his tongue like silk in a gentle breeze.

“It’s beautiful. What does it mean?” For all she knew, it was a grocery list. He could read her the freaking dictionary in Russian and she’d think it was stunning.

He raised her wrist, and brushed his lips over the crisscross of scars. “I used to think she’d made it up, but I discovered years after we left, that it’s Tolstoy. It means, All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.” He kissed the corner of her mouth so lightly, she wasn’t sure she felt it.

Her lips parted in a silent oh.

“In other words...” He nipped along the tender skin. “You’re made up of the good and the bad. Leave one behind, hide it, pretend it doesn’t exist, and you’re not you anymore.”

It was a poetic sentiment, but too simplistic to be considered words to live by. She wasn’t prepared to argue, though. Not with him kissing along her jaw, and that raspy hint of accent lining his words.

Having her past, her heart, her doubts and fears exposed wasn’t where she wanted to go. She was much more interested in pulling back to a superficial level. Ash dropped her hand back to follow the line of his appendix scar, then lower. Teasing his hot skin.

He growled against her neck, and it sent tingles of anticipation racing over her. “What are you doing?” A heavy warning hung in his question, but he didn’t push her away.

“Being too impatient to wait for my wedding night?” Being terrified. Why did she say that? She was less than eager for him to find out how inexperienced she was. But dipping below the elastic of his boxers, and the hum that rumbled in his chest with each touch, made it impossible for her to take the suggestion back.

Mischa nipped her skin. Her shoulder. Collarbone. The hollow at the base of her throat. “I don’t see any reason we have to wait.”

Ash balanced on a fine point between each delicious touch. Doubt stole her response, and her body refused to respond to her will, going rigid.

He pulled back to look her in the eye. “Unless you’d rather not?”

“I rather would.” The clumsy words tripped over her tongue. “That is, I don’t...” She couldn’t admit that.

“Don’t what?” He dragged his nose up the side of her neck, his breath warm and tempting.

Don’t want you to stop. “Don’t-know-what-I’m-doing,” she blurted out. “I’m not a virgin or anything, but I’m closer to that than experienced.”

“Best way to get better is practice.” He kissed her lightly, before laying a series of small nips along her bottom lip and steeling her breath. “And I’m always up for extra practice time.”

“I do like learning new things.”

He tugged the bottom of her shirt up, careful of her cast as he pulled it over her head. The way he trailed his gaze along her torso, lingering on her stomach then breasts, made her pulse throb under her skin.

He reached behind her to unsnap her bra, then dragged the straps down her arms, and tossed the garment aside. The attention was intoxicating, but she felt odd just standing there.

“What’s wrong?” He dragged his thumb over her protruding lower lip. When he drew the pad across her nipple, the damp trail cooled quickly in the air.

He lowered his head, and wrapped his lips around the swollen nub, flicking his tongue back and forth while he sucked.

She pulled in a sharp breath at the enticing sensation. “I don’t know what to do with my hands,” she managed between breaths.

He gently grasped her cast, and brushed his lips over her fingers where they peeked out. “Nothing with this one.” He traced down her other arm. Hand over hers, he dropped it to below his waist, and curved her fingers around his erection. “This is what you do to me,” he whispered against her cheek.

He was hot and hard through his sweat shorts. Moisture pooled between her legs, growing damper each time he ground against her touch.

Mischa returned his attention to her nipples, sucking and licking, while she caressed his length. This was good. Incredible even. She squirmed each time he flicked his tongue over sensitive skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against her breast.

More of everything. That wasn’t right though. “I don’t know.”

“You have an idea.”

“I want your hand between my legs.” It was easier to say than she expected.

He unzipped her jeans and pushed those and her panties to the ground. Air kissed her wet mound, and a flush rushed through her when she realized she stood naked and exposed in front of him.

It was enough to make her head spin, in a good way.

When he stepped closer again, she tugged the waist of his shorts down to his hips.

“No.” He knocked her hand away with a playful growl.

“Why not?”

“I want this to last, and for as hard as you make me, I can’t guarantee anything of the sort if you wrap your hand around my cock.”

She was searching for a clever comeback when he dipped his fingers between her legs. She gasped, and her hips bucked against his touch. It wasn’t like that when she played with herself. This was like sparks dancing over her skin.

He stroked along her slit, but didn’t enter her or touch the throbbing button that begged for attention.

“More,” she whimpered.

He kissed a line down the middle of her chest, past her belly button, and over her mound. He nudged her back to sit on the edge of the bed. The feeling of his lips against her inner thighs, and the scruff of barely-there beard, stole her breath, and erased any insecurity about the second set of pale white lines—scars from cutting—that hid between her legs.

When he plunged his tongue inside her, she cried out. She knotted her fingers in his hair, needing something to hold onto.

Her head swam, and she hovered on an edge of pleasure that was new and terrifying and exhilarating. His thumb pressed against her clit, but he eased off again as she rushed toward climax.

He applied weight again to her swollen sex, this time not letting up when she moaned. She bucked against his touch when she came, grinding into his face, needing to feel everything, until it was too much.

She jerked away with a sigh, and he rose up to look her in the eye. He moved to kiss her, and she hesitated at the shine on his lips and face, before she realized what she was doing.

Mischa placed a finger to her mouth, and she drew it in with her tongue.

“It’s just you,” he said. “And fuck, you taste good.”

She didn’t taste like much of anything, but the way he groaned, and watched her through half-closed eyes when she sucked on his finger, made the entire thing seem wicked.

She dove in when he moved to kiss her again, her tongue dancing with his. There was a new thrill, knowing where he’d been. How incredible it felt.

A playful desperation swelled inside. She wanted to feel him inside her. Not just his tongue or fingers. Ash tugged at his shorts again. “Now?”

He growled as he kissed along her jaw to her neck. He sucked on the skin until it stung. She squeezed her legs together at the persistent throb.

“Are you still wet?” he asked.

She nodded, not sure she could speak.

“Scoot back on the bed and lay down.”

She did as prompted. He took a foil pack from the drawer in the nightstand. He shed his shorts, and his erection sprung free. Her hand hadn’t lied. He really was that big.

He rolled on the condom. She couldn’t help but watch him, kneeling between her legs, the light dancing off muscle and ink and his confident smirk.

He dragged the head of his cock along her slit, then nudged her entrance. When he thrust inside, she closed her eyes and arched her back into the feeling of being stretched out.

“Look at me.” The command in his voice compelled her to obey.

She locked her gaze on his. It was tempting to fall into dark brown eyes, carried on the steady motion of him sliding most of the way out of her, before plunging back in again.

“You wanted to know what to do with your hand.” His voice had dropped an octave. “Play with yourself. I want to watch you come while I fuck you.”

Masturbation was something she did with the lights off and the blanket pulled up high, and only on those rare occasions when she was home alone. But the way he watched her, drank her in with his gaze, was a compelling reason to agree.

She sought out her clit, stroking while he slammed into her, faster and harder. He hit something inside that made her moan, and she pressed into herself. Orgasm was just out of reach. Her grip slipped, and she hit a new nerve.

Climax crashed around her again, and she jerked her hand away when her tender sex protested.

The way Mischa’s face was screwed up, lost in what she assumed were similar sensations, and the sound of his grunts was enthralling. He let out a staccato burst of groans, then shuddered to a stop.

He dropped his forehead to her chest, as they struggled to catch their breath. It was a few minutes before he withdrew.

A strange ache grew inside her at the absence of his touch. It was a faint whisper, but she didn’t care for it. He stripped off the condom and tossed it away. “Do you want a towel?”

She’d never been offered that before. “Yes?”

He wandered into the bathroom, and she heard the faucet running. He returned with a glass of water and a washcloth. She swallowed half the water in a single gulp.

The heat of wet terrycloth between her legs made her moan. Mischa wiped away her juices.

Every touch was so tender, she didn’t know what to do with it. When he dropped into bed next to her, and pulled her close, she didn’t resist. He covered them with the comforter. “I know it’s not a long trip back to your room, but stay here tonight?”

She nodded and pressed closer. The feeling of skin on skin drew her toward drowsiness. She couldn’t get used to this. Not the sweetness or the intimacy. Not if it was all temporary. But so help her, she wanted to.