Half Of My Heart

ANYA

“Ow!” The biting pain from the ointment is so sharp that I yank my hand away from Dimitri’s.

He snaps a stern look at me— a look that immediately makes me regret doing so. Then he glances at the red blisters on my palm and softens his gaze. “Sorry,” he says, sounding as monotonous as he did in the car.

“No, it’s not your fault,” I say, shaking my head in a hurry.

I am perched on the couch across from him, while he sits on the coffee table, his knees caging me between them. One of his large hands is beneath mine, holding it firmly, while the other applies ointment to the blisters with gentle strokes.

“You shouldn’t walk home alone like that.” He gives me an almost pitiful look, holding my hand tighter. “It’s dangerous.”

My mouth forms a pout. “I always walk home. I just didn’t have luck on my side tonight.”

“Don’t do that again.” He meets my eyes, a hint of fear in them, his amber irises darkening. “And always keep my number in your emergency contacts.” His fingers stop moving over my wounds as if he just realized what he said.

My heart skips a beat. “Why?” I ask, my voice throaty as the heat of his touch tightens my stomach.

I am in his home, all alone, and he is right here just a little distance away, looking sharp and handsome. His face is perfect, his hair is crumpled, his breaths are slow and steady, and his attention is on me— my wounds more precisely— but still on me.

“Because I’m telling you to,” he grunts, releasing a sigh and placing my hand back on my lap once he is finished.

“You’re not my dad.” My feminist instinct to rebel forces the words out of my mouth, but my desire to please him makes them burn my cheeks with embarrassment.

At my impromptu statement, he pauses from placing the medicine back in his first aid kit. His warm eyes bore into mine for a brief, charged second before he shakes his head, muttering something I can’t hear.

A long stretch of tension-filled silence grows between us until I find the courage to clear my throat. “I should go,” I say, sniffing. I frown as I register the scent of the garbage juices that soaked into my outfit from the fall. “I need to change.”

“No.” Dimitri’s voice is rough. He stands up from the coffee table, placing his hands on his hips. “You’re staying here tonight.”

My jaw slackens. “Mr. Rossi, I can’t. Blake will be here, and besides, I don’t even have any clothes to change into.”

“Blake isn’t coming home tonight. He’s crashing at a friend’s place. And as for clothes, I’ll give you some.”

I get up from the couch, ignoring the wobbling of my knees. “Mr. Rossi…but…I can’t. It’s late.”

The hesitation in my voice seems to make him pause. He looks at me for a while, a calmness unlike anything I have ever seen painted on his expression.

“Don’t argue with me, Anya.” He breathes an exhausted sigh, rubbing on his chin. “I’ll be worrying about you all night if I let you go. So calm down, and just stay the night.”

His admission that he is worried for me makes my heart giddy. My throat parches as I stare at him, trying to decipher this man in front of me. I open my mouth, intending to protest again, but the urge dies in my throat.

“Okay.” I nod. Yes, Daddy.

***

After a long shower, which did little to calm my racing thoughts, I emerge from the bathroom wearing one of Dimitri’s fresh-smelling shirts, my wet hair bound up in a towel.

My body is still buzzing from the events of the night. While the adrenaline from the attack faded a while ago, a different hormone began flooding my veins the moment Dimitri carried me into his home.

Even the lemony scent of his shirt is enough to make me feel heady.

Pulling on the fabric, which stops just above my knees, I return to the living room. Dimitri is spread out on the couch, one arm curled over the back while he browses through Netflix using the remote in his other hand.

I step into his field of vision and unwrap the towel from around my head, tossing it onto a dining chair and letting my hair cascade down in a tangled mess. As I walk between him and the TV, I run my fingers through my hair, fully aware that the hem of the shirt is rising up my thighs.

By the time I sit down beyond his feet, Dimitri’s eyes are wide on me, his pupils dilated, and his grip on the remote so tight the plastic creaks. He flits his heated stare up and down my body, dragging his jaw from left to right.

Knowing he wants an explanation for my outfit, I shrug. “The pants wouldn’t fit, and I didn’t have a belt,” I say, pulling my feet up to sit cross-legged on the couch.

He tears his gaze off my exposed skin, fisting his free hand tightly as he sits up. “Here, have some food,” he says gruffly. He pushes a bowl toward me.

I reach for it, instantly delighted at the sight of the dish before me. “Cheese pasta! That’s my favorite!” I take the bowl and make myself comfortable on the couch. “You’re spoiling me, Dad.” I test out the word, and it feels natural on my lips. I smile when his eyes flash to mine.

“Just eat.”

I chuckle at Dimitri’s grumpy tone, and it seems like we are slipping back to how we were before I kissed him.

I guess we aren’t going to talk about it, I think, resigning myself to keep my feelings for him in check.

While I eat, Dimitri flicks through shows, and we argue over what to watch. He wants sports, and I prefer drama. Our banter puts me at ease, and our debate about sci-fi reenergizes me.

The tension that was between us melts away, but it returns in the moments when I catch his attention lingering on my exposed legs. In those moments, the shirt feels rough against my skin, and it rubs my nipples to attention.

As if summoned, his eyes find my hardened nubs every time before flicking back to the screen. And then the banter begins again, continuing the tension cycle.

We settle on Black Mirror, and after placing my bowl on the coffee table, I sneak a glance at him. He is focused on the screen, the dark nature of the show not bathing his face with many colors in the dimly lit room.

It doesn’t take much light to see how handsome he is, though. Shadows dance across his face, holding me entranced until his lips begin to move.

“I don’t remember the last time I sat and watched something with…someone.” His voice deepens as he speaks the last word, his eyes locking onto mine.

I fight back a smile even though my heart is doing somersaults inside. “Well…I’m pleased to be your first, Mr. Rossi.”

“Don’t call me that,” he says, the deliberateness of his words shifting the mood.

I swallow hard from the severity in his tone. “Why?”

“It doesn’t sound right anymore. Call me Dimitri.” He stares at me as I stare at him.

Electricity sparks up my spine, causing me to suck in a breath and shift in my seat. Placing my feet back on the floor, I dig my nails into the plushy couch cushion. A sense of knowingness hits my chest, bursting through the seams and spreading like a disease.

It is finally time to talk about it.

“Is it because I kissed you?” I murmur, embarrassment forcing my head to bow. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea. I just—”

“What was the wrong idea?”

His question pulls my head back up with a tug, and his shifting on the couch straightens my spine. When he sits up, his body heat tingles my skin, and when he gives me a dark, erotic stare, his enveloping scent, sharp features, and dark stubble leave me speechless.

I can only blink, and as I inhale lungfuls of his masculine, erotic presence, the spot between my legs starts to drip my arousal down.

“You said you didn’t want to give me the wrong idea,” he says, dragging his tongue over his pillowy bottom lip. “What was the wrong idea?”

His hungry eyes skate through me, making me feel naked. Excitement flares up before fear extinguishes it, reminding me who he is—my ex’s dad, my professor, and a man my parents would never accept.

Swallowing hard, I blink and shake my head. “I…I shouldn’t,” I manage to say.

Dimitri’s forehead creases as he leans in. He presses one hand on the couch right beside my hip and the other on the edge of the coffee table, his knuckles bleaching. His lips part to ask, “Do you want me, Anya?”

Taken aback by this question, one I wouldn’t have expected to hear from him in a million years, I am left breathless. Every cell in my body lights up as I struggle to find the words to say. “I…”

He grasps my chin firmly, tipping it upward so that I am looking into the endless depths of his hazy, lust-filled eyes. “Look me in the eyes when you speak to me,” he commands in his stern, professorial tone. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” I answer promptly, surprising myself with my sincerity.

“Is it because of Blake?” His grip on my chin tightens.

“What? No!” I wrench myself away from him. “Why would I do that?” The tips of my fingers graze my mouth as a sudden realization jolts me. “Oh my god! Is that what you think of me? That I’d use you to get revenge on Blake?”

Fury has me springing to my feet, but Dimitri grabs my wrist before I can storm away. “Anya, I’m sorry,” he says, scooting toward me and tugging me back onto the couch. “Anya, I had to ask. I’m sorry.”

His hands rub over my arms, and the warmth it generates—along with the compassionate expression adorning his handsome face—soothes my thoughts.

“I’m not that kind of woman, Dimitri,” I say, raising my chin. “If I want something, I am pretty clear about it.” As I speak, courage swells within me, emboldening me to continue. “And yes, I do want you.”

Emotions play across his face, but I can’t make them out before something flashes through his eyes. Desire, perhaps. Then his jaw ticks viciously, and his whole body tenses.

“What do you want from me?” he asks, exhaling in a low tone. “I can’t give you much, Anya. I shouldn’t even want to. Fuck!” He rubs his hands over his face. “I shouldn’t even be here with you, alone, while my son is out. Even the thought of it…it makes me hate myself.”

His voice is a whisper by the time he finishes speaking, and for the first time, I see him struggle. He is struggling with his feelings just as I have been struggling with mine. He likes me just as much as I like him, and he knows it is wrong for us to feel this way.

We share a forbidden desire for each other, and the revelation has me squeezing my knees together.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. I understand,” I say quietly.

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

A smirk curls his lips. “God, you’re truly one of a kind. I’m going to hell for this.”

“Going to hell for what?” My fingers play with the hem of the shirt, drawing his gaze to my exposed thighs. “You haven’t done anything.” When our eyes lock again, I give him my most devious smile and add, “Yet.”

The silence that follows only lasts a couple of seconds before Dimitri snaps into action, gripping my hips and lifting me onto his lap with his Herculean arms. In a flash, I am straddling him, facing his intense, hungry expression.

“Fuck, my pretty little oblivious woman,” he says with a hum, his lips coming close to mine. “You’ve no idea what you’ve just done.”