“Fuck. I love it when you get all possessive.”
“That’s not an answer. I don’t want to see you with girls or guys hanging onto your arm or sitting on your lap. I don’t want anyone to touch you, period.”
“Only if you don’t let anyone touch you.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you going to delete that one picture with Clara on you IG?”
“You went that far back?”
“So what if I did? I’m going to need you to erase her existence from your life.”
“I’ve already deleted that post a long time ago.”
“In that case…” Grinning, I take out my phone, go to the post, and type a comment.
Nah, not your hunk. Delete this.
A smug smile curves Bran’s lips when he sees it and he nods with approval before he turns away and I resume massaging his shoulders. Fuck me. I love the feel of his relaxing muscles beneath my fingers and the content noises he releases.
“By the way, I googled the meaning of Brandon, and it literally means prince or king. Don’t I get brownie points for calling you Prince Charming?”
“More like stalkerish tendencies points. Who googles the meaning of other people’s names?”
“I do because it’s you. I’m curious about everything that concerns you.”
He leans his head on my shoulder, and my movements come to a halt when his eyes meet mine and he flashes me a little smile. That feeling lurking in my stomach lurches up and I feel trapped, completely and utterly taken by him and his rare smiles.
Jesus fucking Christ. What’s happening to me?
“Aren’t you curious about me?” My voice comes low, a bit vulnerable, and I don’t even do that. Why is it that Bran looks at me and I feel this sense…of doubt? Not in me, but in his feelings for me.
I can sense myself falling deeper and harder, but he’s still a blank board most of the time, and that does shit to me.
“I am,” he says softly.
“Are you going to google the meaning of my name?”
“No need. It’s the Slavic version of Nicholas who was the Greek god of victory.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I just know it’s a badass Russian name and means victory or something like that.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
“Sure as fuck. My grandad made sure my sisters and I do or else he wouldn’t have given us our Russian card.”
“I never heard you speak it.”
“I do sometimes with Jeremy and especially the guards since most of them are Russian-born.”
“Tell me something in Russian.”
I cup his chin and stare deep into those eyes that have become my undoing as I say the words Grandpa said Russians take seriously and literally. “Ya nee ma goo bees tee byah zhit.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re so cute,” I lie through my teeth.
He frowns. “Don’t call me that.”
I wrap my arm around his waist, trapping him in my grip. “Tell me something you noticed about me no one else knows.”
“What type of request is that?”
“Just do it.”
He lifts a hand and traces a line from my forehead over my nose. “Not sure if no one else knows this, but you have a perfectly symmetrical face. Most people have an eye or ear that’s slightly bigger that the other. They have a good side because it’s proportionally better than the opposite one, but you look perfect from any side, because everything is well-balanced. Even your upper and lower lip are the same size. Actually, your entire body is perfectly symmetrical.”
He strokes his fingers over my lips and they willingly part. God damn. He says a few words that imply he’s been watching me and I feel like I’m being torn apart. “You’re an artist’s dream muse.”
“Then make me yours.”
He laughs. “Maybe you already are.”
“Fuck yeah. That’s a good thing, right?”
“Maybe.” He continues stroking my face. “Your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“Tell me something you noticed about me no one else knows.”
“Hmm. You have eleven moles on your body.”
“Okay…”
“I’m not done. You have two hundred seventeen lashes on your right eye and two hundred twelve lashes on your left one.”
His lips part. “You…counted them?”
“Almost every night since you stayed over. That’s last night’s count. Might change today. You tend to lose some on your left eye.”