touching that one. Call her cowardly or smart, it didn't matter, whatever Ilya said, they were alone and she didn't trust herself with him if he started talking long-term. Men like Ilya didn't do long-term. They were one-nighters and they were gone. No commitment. No strings. He'd just admitted it. She took refuge in attack.
"How long was your longest relationship?"
His blue gaze held hers. "I just told you, I've never had a relationship."
" Exactly . Because you don't have relationships, Ilya, you have one-night stands. You have sex and you leave. Fast. You probably don't remember her name or face afterward."
"Like you planned to do last week?"
She had the grace to blush. "I'll admit it. I thought if we had sex, it would get you out of my system and I wouldn't have to lie awake thinking about you anymore, but you said no, and I'm good with that."
"Are you?"
His foot touched hers, the gentlest of taps, but her heart jumped in response.
"I don't think you're telling me the truth again. Are you afraid I'll forget you, Joley? Because frankly, lyubimaya moya , I don't think that's possible."
"Whatever." She bit her lip, not believing she'd said that. She'd just lost every bit of respect for her own ability to argue her way out of anything. It was just the way his voice turned husky and intimate when he spoke Russian. Lyubimaya moya . She translated it as "my sweetheart." The phrase was far more romantic in his language.
For a moment there was silence between them, filled only by the sound of traffic flowing around the bus. Ilya touched her shoe again with his. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, but you were hoping to have sex and walk away without ever looking back. That's not what's between us. That's how you're looking at me—at us—and I'm not willing for that to be all there is."
He was throwing down the gauntlet with a vengeance. She looked around her bus, her home away from Sea Haven, and desperately wished herself safe within the protection of her sisters. The simple act of inhaling took him into her lungs. He seemed to dwarf everything in the bus, including her. And the last thing she wanted to talk about was how she had humiliated herself by going to a party she clearly didn't want to go to in order to throw herself at him only to be rejected. Not when he was so ready to cooperate with her now.
Abruptly she got up and yanked open the fridge, peering inside blindly. "You want anything?"
"I don't drink alcohol."
She turned back toward him, her eyebrow raised. "Why not?" Was she finally finding a chink in his armor? A weakness?
He shrugged. "In my line of business alcohol can get a man killed—and it doesn't really affect me the way it does others. As with you, I imagine, any type of drug or drink poisons my body and is rejected."
She knew the truth when she heard it. She didn't drink either, because being a Drake made it nearly impossible to be anything but violently ill if she indulged. "Bottled water or juice?"
"Orange juice then."
She took a deep, calming breath. She could do this. She could handle Ilya Prakenskii. She forced a smile as she handed him the bottle of orange juice. "Ice cold. Should be good."
She tried not to watch him drink, not to watch his throat as he swallowed. How in the world she found it sexy, she didn't know, but even the way he held the juice bottle by the neck, his eyes on her while he drank, made her womb clench. She sank back into the chair opposite him and touched her tongue to her lips. "What were you like as a child?"
Ilya's breath caught in his lungs, the question bringing up a time he kept hidden and refused to examine too often. Afraid and hungry .
His first thought was so strong he wasn't certain he had repressed it in time to hide it from her. Ilya searched his memories to give her a piece of himself that wasn't too bad. He didn't want pity. His life had been shaped by his childhood, and if he had to give up something to her, he wanted it
"How long was your longest relationship?"
His blue gaze held hers. "I just told you, I've never had a relationship."
" Exactly . Because you don't have relationships, Ilya, you have one-night stands. You have sex and you leave. Fast. You probably don't remember her name or face afterward."
"Like you planned to do last week?"
She had the grace to blush. "I'll admit it. I thought if we had sex, it would get you out of my system and I wouldn't have to lie awake thinking about you anymore, but you said no, and I'm good with that."
"Are you?"
His foot touched hers, the gentlest of taps, but her heart jumped in response.
"I don't think you're telling me the truth again. Are you afraid I'll forget you, Joley? Because frankly, lyubimaya moya , I don't think that's possible."
"Whatever." She bit her lip, not believing she'd said that. She'd just lost every bit of respect for her own ability to argue her way out of anything. It was just the way his voice turned husky and intimate when he spoke Russian. Lyubimaya moya . She translated it as "my sweetheart." The phrase was far more romantic in his language.
For a moment there was silence between them, filled only by the sound of traffic flowing around the bus. Ilya touched her shoe again with his. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, but you were hoping to have sex and walk away without ever looking back. That's not what's between us. That's how you're looking at me—at us—and I'm not willing for that to be all there is."
He was throwing down the gauntlet with a vengeance. She looked around her bus, her home away from Sea Haven, and desperately wished herself safe within the protection of her sisters. The simple act of inhaling took him into her lungs. He seemed to dwarf everything in the bus, including her. And the last thing she wanted to talk about was how she had humiliated herself by going to a party she clearly didn't want to go to in order to throw herself at him only to be rejected. Not when he was so ready to cooperate with her now.
Abruptly she got up and yanked open the fridge, peering inside blindly. "You want anything?"
"I don't drink alcohol."
She turned back toward him, her eyebrow raised. "Why not?" Was she finally finding a chink in his armor? A weakness?
He shrugged. "In my line of business alcohol can get a man killed—and it doesn't really affect me the way it does others. As with you, I imagine, any type of drug or drink poisons my body and is rejected."
She knew the truth when she heard it. She didn't drink either, because being a Drake made it nearly impossible to be anything but violently ill if she indulged. "Bottled water or juice?"
"Orange juice then."
She took a deep, calming breath. She could do this. She could handle Ilya Prakenskii. She forced a smile as she handed him the bottle of orange juice. "Ice cold. Should be good."
She tried not to watch him drink, not to watch his throat as he swallowed. How in the world she found it sexy, she didn't know, but even the way he held the juice bottle by the neck, his eyes on her while he drank, made her womb clench. She sank back into the chair opposite him and touched her tongue to her lips. "What were you like as a child?"
Ilya's breath caught in his lungs, the question bringing up a time he kept hidden and refused to examine too often. Afraid and hungry .
His first thought was so strong he wasn't certain he had repressed it in time to hide it from her. Ilya searched his memories to give her a piece of himself that wasn't too bad. He didn't want pity. His life had been shaped by his childhood, and if he had to give up something to her, he wanted it
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