Page 22 of Bedazzled
I could hear him breathing, a little fast, a little hoarse.Probably from the screaming all the screaming he must have done when they tortured him. Shut up brain!
Clearing my throat, I said, “What’s up?”
There was a low chuckle that set everything south of my waist to a low simmer. “I would like to say me, but I suspect you would slap me for it, based on my recent behavior.”
“You would be correct. What happened to my man who used to makeme- ugh! - communicate?”
There was silence and my heart twinged.Smooth, girl. Real subtle.
“He would like to see you and apologize.”
I let out a shaky sigh of relief that I hoped he didn’t hear. “I’d like that too.”
I paced in front of the huge window in the living room. The same window where I had seen Yuri for one sweet moment before those Irish fucks started shooting at him and poor Patrick.
Looking away, I said, “Alexa, put on the Yuri playlist.” He loved Abel Korzeniowski, a composer who created mournful - and wildly beautiful - violin music. Hearing it always made me wish I hadn’t given up playing. However, since my motherwantedme to play the violin, naturally I stopped the minute I was old enough to refuse. The music was too sweet. Too refined, or something. It gave me a rash. Though on nights like these, waiting for him to show up and know he was safe, my hands would twitch in the familiar positions, and I wanted to feel the strings press under my fingertips again.
The doorbell made me jump. Jumpy, much?I lectured myself.Relax, you big baby.
I opened the door and there he was. Yuri, tall and blond and so damn beautiful. Leaning against the frame, I looked him up and down. “You here to deliver my groceries?”
Not the devilish grin! Don’t you dare try to charm me, you dick!
“I’m not that kind of delivery man,” he smiled charmingly. “I deliver orgasms.” He watched my eyes narrow and pulled out the huge bouquet from behind his back with a flourish. “And apologies.”
“Good save,” I said, taking the flowers. “You brought me my sunflowers.” I touched them with reverent fingertips, the brilliant yellows blending in with the dark, dark purples. Almost black. For one horrible second, the vision of his blood splattered against the yellow flowers hit me and I shuddered.
“Was it the wrong choice?” Yuri’s expression fell and he tried to take them back.
“No, I want them,” I stepped back, letting him in. “When I was talking to you in the hospital, when you were in your coma? I told you that I didn’t get my night with you or my sunflowers, so you had to make it up to me.”
He bent down, carefully placing his forehead against mine. “I want to make it up to you.”
I hugged him as hard as I dared, crushing the flowers between us. “You already did. You woke up.”
He made a noise that sounded a lot like pain and kissed me, his plush lips pressing hard against mine. My Yuri playlist shifted to “Satin Birds.”
“Will you dance with me?” He put the flowers on my hall table and pulled me into the living room with a dark little smile. The piano notes made a gentle, orderly rhythm to move my feet to while the mournful violin pulled painfully at my shoulders and back, swaying me back and forth in his arms.
We had danced so many times in this huge, fancy living room. He taught me the box step as I stood on his feet, laughing. The Waltz. Swing dancing, the Tango, the Paso Doble, the Foxtrot, and on one drunken evening, the Hornpipe. We had laughed so hard we fell over and he pushed inside me right there on the floor.
“What are you thinking about?” Yuri murmured.
“Dancing the Hornpipe.”
His chest moved in that new, careful way that meant he was laughing without moving enough to hurt his slowly healing ribs. “That was quite the evening.”
“I had rug burns on my ass, babe. I couldn’t sit down for like three days,” I was laughing, too. “Not that it wasn’t worth it.”
His huge hand cupped my cheek, his thumb rubbing against my lips. “I have never met a woman filled with more light than you. How you can always make me laugh?”
This tenderness was flustering me, so I scoffed, “It’s because you Russians are so stoic. I don’t think I ever saw your brother smile unless he was shitfaced.”
“He smiles for Ella,” he said.
Like I smile for you.I heard it, even if he didn’t say it out loud.
Chapter Seven
