CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
She owned a diner.
Theresa grinned to herself as she pulled into the parking lot, then walked around the back and up to the kitchen doors, the ones not for public use. She could use them because she owned the diner. Owned. The diner. Well, she didn’t actually own the diner. She’d simply agreed to help run this diner, with the potential to eventually own part of it, so long as she kept up her part of the payments they’d agreed on.
She and Ilya Stern: partners.
This thought sobered her a little, her smile fading. It had all happened so fast her head was still spinning a little. This was crazy. Beyond insane. Yet she’d couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so excited to be part of something. Maybe she never had.
The door creaked open before she could even knock, revealing Ilya. His grin was as broad as her own. “Hey.”
He stepped aside to let her in, then danced beside her as she stepped all the way into the kitchen. Such a kid, she thought, but fondly, letting his blatant enthusiasm coax some from her. She watched him shimmy up and down between the gigantic industrial stove and the stainless-steel prep area. When he flipped her another one of those infectious grins, she gave in to laughter.
“We are going to kick ass with this,” she said.
Ilya snorted laughter. “Sure, because owning a restaurant is notoriously one of the easiest and most profitable businesses to take on, right? Money’s going to rain down from the heavens.”
“Don’t be a cynic. This is a diner with a long history in this town, and you’re going to make it better than it ever was.”
Ilya stopped his shuffling to spin slowly in a circle. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Not me. We. You’re the one who got us into it. We’re in this together, or not at all. Don’t tell me you’re backing out.”
“If I didn’t think we could, I wouldn’t have agreed to it.” She leaned against the prep counter, arms crossed. “I did all the numbers back and forth, sideways and upside down. Yes, I think we can make it work.”
“There’s my girl,” Ilya said.
He’d tossed off the endearment like it meant nothing. He might as well have ruffled her hair and called her “champ,” Theresa told herself, even as something tingled and buzzed inside her at the way he’d claimed her so casually.
“The kitchen’s in great shape. Stove, fridge, freezer—all good. We’ll need new dishes, flatware, glassware, pots, and pans. That sort of thing.” She touched the pocket of her jacket, where she’d been keeping a list of things she’d jotted down as they came to her. “But, really, most of what we need to do here is going to be more cosmetic than anything else. The key’s going to be the menu—”
“Which is going to kick ass.”
“And hiring a competent staff.” She waited to see if he was going to comment on that, and when he didn’t, she added, “It’s going to mean a lot of long hours, working very hard.”
Ilya turned to twist the knob on the stove, waiting until the blue gas flame flared to life. He shot her another grin. “We should cook something.”
“We don’t have anything to cook.” Theresa went around the counter to the rows of cabinets on the wall where the plates and glasses were stored. She took one out, eyeing the thick white porcelain. “I wonder how many people have eaten meals off these plates?”
“Millions,” Ilya said at once. “Bazillions.”
“Weirdo.” Laughing, she put the plate back and turned. Ilya was staring at her. Not smiling. Her own smile faded.
“What’s the matter?”
He put both his hands on the prep counter, leaning. “This is real. It’s happening.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s really happening.”
“I don’t want to mess it up. That’s all.” Ilya shook his head, shoulders hunching.
Theresa went around the counter to stand in front of him. “I don’t want you to mess it up, either.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “You’re always so good to me. So positive. Such a cheerleader.”
She punched him lightly on the arm. “Hey, someone has to keep that insane ego in check. If not me, who?”
“Good question.” He slid a hand down her arm to let his fingers circle her wrist, tugging her a step closer.
She let him.
“I really need someone who’s good at keeping me in hand,” Ilya said in a low voice. His gaze met hers and lingered. His smile, small and tilted, made her think of secrets. “Someone who can keep me in line.”
She must’ve been standing closer to him than she’d thought, because she could feel his heat. It sent an echoing rush of warmth through her, up her throat to paint her cheeks. When he tugged her wrist again, bringing her right up next to him, her lips were already parting in anticipation of the kiss that came a moment after.
She should never have told herself she could deny this, but there wasn’t time to think about it now. As Ilya’s kiss deepened, his free hand slid up her back, between her shoulder blades at first, and then higher to cup the back of her neck. His fingers twitched in the thickness of her hair, loose over her shoulders and down her back.
He kissed her long and hard, stealing her breath. His tongue swept hers, probing, and she opened more to give him every access to her. At the press of his hardness against her belly, Theresa gave a small, helpless groan.
“I love the way you taste,” Ilya whispered into the kiss. “So damned sweet. I want to touch you. Let me touch you.”
She tipped her head back to give him her throat. “You’re touching me.”
“I want to touch you here.” He let go of her wrist to slide between her thighs, pressing her through the thin material of her dress and the soft cotton panties she wore beneath. “Say yes, Theresa.”
She could not say yes. First of all because the way his knuckles rubbed against her had taken most of her voice, but also because to give him permission was going to send them both tumbling into a very dark rabbit hole she wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to climb out of. Ilya buried his face in the curve of her neck. The press of his teeth made her squirm.
“I want to touch you,” he murmured. The hand between her legs moved. Stroking. Pressing.
She shivered with the pleasure of it and said Ilya’s name instead, her back arching. Her stance widening. One hand went to his shoulder, her fingers digging deep. She waited, breathless, for him to slide his fingers under her dress. Inside her panties. She waited for him to touch her, even though she had not said yes.
“Tell me yes,” Ilya said. “Please. I need to touch you.”
Say yes to danger. That was what she’d be agreeing to. No pleasure was worth that, she thought. They’d signed away their lives to buy this diner, he with the money up front, she with the commitment to follow through over time. She was going to let him take her right here in the kitchen, and when it ended between them, as it certainly would, she would end up like Alicia had, working alongside him for years and watching him drift from woman to woman, never able to escape him because they owned a business together.
“Yes,” Theresa whispered. “Yes, touch me.”
His groan tightened her nipples and sent another slow roll of tingling heat through her. He inched up the fabric of her dress and slipped a hand along her belly, bared above the panties. His fingertips skated along the lacy waistband before dipping inside to find more heat there. He found her sweet spot effortlessly, circling, sending waves of desire flooding her.
When Ilya dropped to his knees in front of her, Theresa’s first instinct was to slide her fingers into his hair—but to hold him back or pull him closer against her, she wasn’t sure. The feeling of his tongue on her made it almost impossible to think straight. His hands gripped the backs of her thighs, sliding up to cup her ass, pulling her close against his mouth so he could feast on her.
“Wait, wait,” she cried breathlessly, although she didn’t actually have any idea what she wanted him to wait for.
She looked down at him. He looked up. His eyes gleamed. She shivered again with pleasure when he swept his tongue over his lips and gave her that specifically knowing grin she had not yet been able to resist. In seconds, Ilya was on his feet, turning her to face the prep counter. She looked over her shoulder at the sound of his zipper coming down.
“Wait,” she said again, but he was already pulling something out of his pocket to hold up to her.
Theresa groaned at the sight of the small square. She had condoms in her bag, always. She’d decided she’d never again go through the embarrassment of visiting the clinic. He must have planned this, she thought, and wondered if she ought to be offended or aroused by his consideration. Her fingers skidded on the prep counter’s metal top as he pushed her shoulder gently to bend her over. Her eyes closed as her muscles tensed, waiting for him to fill her.
She should protest.
She didn’t want to.
“Tell me you want this,” Ilya said in a low voice. He pushed her skirt up to her hips and tugged her panties down.
She felt the brush of him, his heat against her bare skin. His foot knocked against the inside of hers, urging her to open for him, and she did. “I want this.”
“Tell me you need this.”
But she would not. It didn’t matter. He groaned when he entered her, and so did she. Eyes still closed, Theresa bent to let her cheek press to the cool metal of the prep counter. Ilya moved inside her, slowly at first. Then faster. It wouldn’t be enough, she thought, and it wouldn’t matter, because casual sex was one of those things she most often simply did so she could think about it later, turning it over and over in her mind and getting off more on the memories than the event itself.
His hand slipped around to touch her, his fingers stroking in time to his thrusts. She tensed, pleasure sparking and crackling through her. What had been an uncertain thing was becoming rapidly more likely. Theresa breathed, letting the desire build. Riding it. Letting it overtake her.
There is always a moment when orgasm becomes an inevitability. Unstoppable. She’d raced lovers in the past to get there, desperate to get off before they finished. There was nothing of that sense of desperation now, nothing but slow and easy, rising ecstasy. She was on the edge before she knew it and lingered there, gasping with it, waiting to explode.
Ilya’s mutter urged her closer. “Yeah . . . like that . . .”
Theresa let herself give in. The rush of climax overwhelmed her so that she shook with it, moaning. She opened her eyes. She hadn’t seen their reflection before this, the two of them clearly outlined in the glass of the cabinet across from them. Shadow figures, transparent, but nonetheless clear. He was looking at her when he came, his lips pressed together in grim concentration. He closed his eyes in the last few seconds, slowing, and then at last burying himself all the way inside her with a long, low groan.
She’d caught her breath by the time he withdrew. She deliberately did not meet his gaze in their reflection and took her time rearranging her clothes while he took care of cleanup. She smoothed her hair. Ran her fingers over her lips, feeling them a little tender, a little bruised. She closed her eyes again for a second, drawing in a hitching breath, unable to stop the smile from twisting her mouth.
He came up behind her to nuzzle at her neck. “Better than popping a bottle of champagne, huh?”
“Yes.” She relaxed for a second into his embrace because she could; it didn’t have to mean anything.
She thought for sure that Ilya would pull away, but he held on to her for another half a minute until at last she was the one to twist from his grasp. He was smiling at her. She gave him an assessing look.
“You’re so beautiful,” Ilya said. “When did that happen?”
It had happened the moment it occurred to him that she was beautiful, Theresa thought. Before that, had it mattered about the shape of her face or the alignment of her eyes? If her mouth was lush and full and her hair luxurious? Beauty only mattered when it meant something to someone else.
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” was her light reply.
It had been meant to put a little distance between them. To remind him she couldn’t take him seriously. Ilya frowned, though, as if he were taking her words to heart.
“Only to the pretty ones,” he said. “And aren’t they all pretty?”
Stung, and knowing she had no right to be since she’d been the one to push away first, Theresa half turned. “We should start making some lists of things we’re going to want to replace. Get moving on things. That’s why we came here tonight, isn’t it?”
“Sure. Of course.” Ilya nodded. His fly was down, something he seemed to remember right in that moment because he zipped it, then stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around the kitchen. “I guess you have some ideas about that sort of thing already.”
She pulled the list from her pocket to show him. “I started something, yeah.”
“Yeah,” he said. “We started something, all right. Hey. Theresa.”
She looked at him.
“I didn’t take her home. I didn’t go home with her. Amber. We didn’t . . .” He trailed off, shrugging, letting his expression finish the sentence for him.
“It’s not any of my business.”
“I wanted to tell you, anyway,” he said.
“What makes you think I’d care?” Theresa said quietly.
“Maybe I want you to care.”
Another few moments of silence passed with neither of them smiling. Then she held up the list. He leaned closer to look at it. They talked about that list for the rest of the night, and that was all they discussed.