My hands shake as I shove a batch of brownies in the oven.


    Pathetic.


    I’m pathetic.


    This thing between us was supposed to be simple. I signed a deal that explicitly required that. The fine print said nothing about making his favorite childhood dish like some 1950s housewife desperate to please her man.


    And yet…


    My fingers are raw from crimping edges and my lower back aches from standing at the marble counter. I now have a really good idea why Nanna retired early. If a kid was requesting this kind of meal from me two or three times per week, I’d need a break, too.


    But Oleg didn’t even request this from me!


    I chose this.


    His mother never cooked for him once in her life, but I’m really shing my blue cor roots for this one. Oksana is probably going tough about this with all of her friends.


    Maybe Oleg, too.


    I’m probably embarrassing myself—not that I should care what any of them think.


    But fuck me… I do. I really do.


    Because Oleg Pavlov isn’t just my contracted baby-daddy-to-be anymore. He’s be an infection in my bloodstream, a fever I can’t break. When I close my eyes at night, I see his face—not the careful mask he shows the world, but the rare, unguarded moments when something real slips through.


    The elevator pings and my heart stutters.


    He appears in the kitchen doorway like a storm front rolling in. His scarred face is cast in shadow, but I catch the sh of gold in his eyes as they lock onto the spreadid out on the counter.


    “You’re home early,” I manage, proud that my voice stays steady even as heat scalds my cheeks.


    I grip the edge of the counter, needing the anchor. All of this feels silly all of a sudden.


    What am I doing, trying to y house with Oleg Pavlov?


    He moves closer, prowling really, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with winter air. “Disappointed?”


    “Surprised,” I correct, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Pleasantly surprised.”


    His eyes rove over the stove, taking in the pot still gently steaming, the neat rows of dumplings waiting to be served. Something flickers across his face too quickly to catch.


    “I cooked,” I blurt, too nervous to stay quiet. “For us. Pelmeni.”


    The shock washes over him. He circles the ind, double-checking like he doesn’t believe me. “How did you…?”


    “Nanna helped me make them. Your mother gave me her number when I asked about your favorite foods.”


    The silence grows between us, thick and heavy. I can see the muscles in his jaw working, the tremor in his hands as he reaches for the serving spoon.


    The first bite seems to physically rock him—his eyes close, throat working as he swallows.


    “Jesus,” he breathes. “They taste just like…”


    He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to.


    They taste like when he was a kid.


    When he was a protective big brother to Oriana.


    When he was Ollie, not Oleg.


    I see it in the way his shoulders have softened, the ghost of memory smoothing the hard lines of his face.


    I’ve identally breached some carefully constructed wall. I should probably be scared, but watching this mountain of a man brought low by a simple dumpling, knowing I put this look on his face…


    It does something to me.


    My heart is a hummingbird in my chest as I turn away, pretending to fuss with the brownies in the oven, giving him space to process whatever emotions are warring behind those gold eyes.


    But his hand catches my wrist, spinning me back to face him.


    “How?” The wordes out rough, almost angry.


    “I told you. Nanna helped?—”


    “No. Better question.” He tugs me closer, until I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze. “Why?”


    I’m not sure I’m ready to answer that honestly, even to myself.


    Especially not with him looking at me like that.


    “Because…” I lick my lips, searching for an answer that won’t give too much away. “Because everyone deserves to taste home sometimes.”


    Hunger res in his eyes, but not just for food. His free handes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. The touch sends electricity arcing through my body.


    “You contacted my mother.” Not a question. “Asked for Nanna’s number. Spent hours learning to make these perfectly.”


    Each statement brings him closer, until I’m trapped between his body and the counter. The heat rolling off him makes my head swim.


    “It wasn’t a big deal,” I try to deflect, but my voicees out breathy, wanting. “Your mother actually texted me first, about my apparently tragic fashion sense?—”


    “Sutton.” My name is a growl that vibrates through his chest where it’s pressed against mine. “Stop talking.”


    His mouth descends on mine, hungry and demanding. I taste longing on his tongue, need in the way his teeth scrape my bottom lip.


    My hands fist in his shirt as he lifts me onto the counter, spreading my thighs to make room for his hips.


    “Is this what you wanted?” His lips drag across my throat as his hands push under my shirt, leaving heat traces skittering across my skin.


    Instead of answering, I arch into his touch.


    We both know I won’t say it. Not tonight. Not when I can feel him hard against me, when his kisses feel like want and something dangerously close to tenderness.


    His hands brand my skin as he peels away my clothes, methodical despite the tremor I can feel in his fingers.


    Each newly exposed inch of flesh gets imed by his mouth, marked by teeth and tongue until I’m writhing on the counter.


    “Look at you,” he growls against my inner thigh. “All flushed and pretty, spread out on my kitchen counter like a feast.”


    The words sear, burning me right along with all of our careful boundaries and practiced distance.


    Tonight, it’s all going up in mes.


    He holds my hips down with his huge hands as he devours me, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and devastating.


    I’m close to shattering when he pulls back, leaving me gasping. Through heavy-lidded eyes, I watch him strip off his shirt, revealing the map of scars that spreads across his right side.


    Usually, he keeps the lights low, angles himself to hide them.


    But tonight, he stands bare in the bright kitchen light, letting me see everything.


    It feels an awful lot like trust.


    I reach out carefully, pressing my hand to the scarred skin over his heart. Under my palm, it beats wild and strong.


    “What are you thinking, princess?”


    The name has a softer edge this time. Before he can take it back or brush it off, I lean forward and press my lips to thergest scar, just below his corbone.


    His whole body goes rigid.


    “Sutton…”


    Is he telling me to stop?


    Or asking for more?


    I don’t wait to find out.


    I just trace the raised flesh with my tongue, following its path down his chest. His hands tangle in my hair but don’t pull me away.


    When I reach the waistband of his pants, I look up through myshes to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.


    My fingers work at his belt as I whisper, “I want to taste you, too.”


    A sound like pain tears from his throat as he hauls me up into a crushing kiss. “Next time,” he growls, then drives into me in one powerful thrust that has stars bursting behind my eyes.


    We’re both too far gone for finesse. He takes me hard and deep, each snap of his hips pushing me higher.


    My nails rake down his back as pleasure builds, threatening to overwhelm. When his thumb finds my clit, I shatter with a cry that echoes off the kitchen walls.


    He follows soon after, face buried in my neck as he pulses inside me.


    For a long moment, we stay tangled together, hearts racing, skin cooling.


    Then I smell the smoke.


    “The brownies!” I scramble off the counter, my legs still wobbly.


    “Sutton, wait—” Oleg reaches for me but I’m already yanking open the oven door.


    A cloud of smoke billows out, setting off the rm. What were supposed to be fudgy chocte squares now resemble charcoal briquettes.


    I’m fumbling for an oven mitt when Oleg wraps an arm around my middle and yanks me back. “You’re naked. Are you trying to get full body burns to match mine?”


    He whirls me behind him and, wading shirtless through the smoke, pulls the brownies out of the oven and dumps them in the sink, covering them with a pot lid to contain the smoke.


    “Actually, I was trying to impress you with my domestic skills and I nearly burnt down your kitchen.”


    I drop my face into my hands, and a secondter, his armse around me.


    His bare skin is warm against mine, and he’s shaking with what I realize is augh.


    Before I can be offended, he lifts me off the floor and carries me towards the hallway.


    “I don’t care about whether you can bake, Sutton.”


    “No?” I lift my eyes to his as he carries me into his bedroom, dropping me on the bed. When he grabs one of my wrists and brings it to the headboard, I see that the cuffs from our first night together are still dangling there.


    As the metal mps down, Oleg drops his lips to my ear. “You have other skills I admire way more.”