Coffee & Cigarettes
There was one thing that Yassen had a weakness for, an addiction, a need and a want. It was something that he shouldn't want, need or have. He shouldn't want to mark her as his, brand her with his teeth marks, with his soft, butterfly kisses along her smooth jaw line. He shouldn't want another kiss, and another, and another, and another – that was dangerous for him and her. He shouldn't . . . but he did anyway. His addiction grew into a crush, into infatuation, and, finally, into love. He, Yassen Gregorovich, the world's deadliest assassin, shouldn't love. But he did, and he couldn't help it. She was the perfect woman for him. Spunky, bossy, stubborn, rude at times, sarcastic, gentle, kind, loving, caring, beautiful, oh so pretty and so much more that Yassen couldn't even begin to try and describe.
Alisa Dimitriev had an addiction that she couldn't seem to quit. Not tobacco. Not caffeine. Yassen Gregorovich. One touch was all she needed, wanted. Just one more hit, one more sip, one more kiss. One more anything from him – one more look if that was all he could manage. His kisses, though – oh, God, his kisses were perfection. His kisses were so passionate, so needy, so loving, and full of fireworks. Nothing could compare for her. At first it was supposedly one night, then casual sex when they were both free, then sex every night, then dates and sex, then dates, kissing, sex, talking. And now . . . love. She didn't mean to fall in love with Yassen. It was uncontrollable. Love was irritatingly perfect and horribly forever and more. But Alisa wouldn't have it any other way with Yassen. He was hers as she was his.
Yassen stroked Alisa's hair as they lay in bed together, legs entwined, body's firm against the other. Alisa slept with a lazy but content smile on her graceful lips, limbs relaxed and breathing slow and deep. Yassen smiled lovingly at his little pixie. Pixie – that was his nickname for her. Her black spiky hair cut short just below her jaw, the ends dyed an electric blue, and her sky blue eyes that swam with affection for Yassen and her family. Her small, thin limbs were alabaster and flawless, other than the puckered scar that ran along her ribcage from her earlier rebel days – but she was still perfect. Alisa smiled sleepily and stretched like a cat, yawning as the sun shone through the gap in the curtains. Yassen pecked her lips lightly.
"Hello, love," Yassen murmured in Alisa's pixie-like hair, nuzzling her ear gently. Alisa grinned cheekily and swung her leg over Yassen's body, straddling him, sitting up with perfect poise. Yassen ran his hands down her side, along her old scar. Alisa tensed. She didn't like her scar – it reminded her of how she got it, and that wasn't something she was proud of. Yassen smiled lovingly at Alisa, his fingers skimming across her thighs. Alisa shook her head at Yassen, grabbing his wrists lightly and placing them above his head. Yassen let Alisa control him, wondering what she was doing. He heard a click and a cold object connect with his skin. Handcuffs. Yassen raised an eyebrow.
"Cheeky pixie," Yassen muttered, trying desperately to lean upwards to kiss Alisa – the handcuffs restricted the movement. Yassen grunted and Alisa grinned. Alisa leaned down and kissed Yassen's bullet wound, his scars, his bruises and his faded scars. Alisa nodded enthusiastically, giggling when Yassen tried to kiss her once again. Alisa sighed, closing her eyes, skimming her nose on Yassen's skin. He was the perfect gentleman for her. He was hers and she was his. She was his and he was hers. There was no way that she could have him all to herself, but she did. Years of fighting it but she did. And she loved him.
"I love you, Yassen Gregorovich." Alisa whispered. Yassen whispered six words that made Alisa's heart lurch with joy:
"I love you, too, Alisa Dimitriev."
'Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.' Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley.