Asylum

Chapter 17: A Rough Start

Early Sunday morning

"Time to get up, Принцесса (princess)," said the whisper in my ear.

"Нет, слишком рано (No, too early)," I mumbled into the pillow. I cracked one eye open to see Ivan standing over me, fully dressed and grinning.

"Personally, I agree," he allowed. "But Marshall has the car waiting downstairs."

I grasped the edge of the mattress with a groan and pulled myself off the bed, flopping onto the floor like a naked, dazed seal.

"Interesting technique," he commented with one eyebrow cocked.

"Desperate times."

I thrust a hand out blindly onto the hardwood in search of some clothes, without much luck. The "naughty nurse" uniform with matching eyepatch I had worn at Asylum last night, though a big hit with patrons and my lusty, sex-god boyfriend alike, was hardly what I wanted to wear on a three-hour flight, even one in a chartered jet. Coming to that conclusion, however, was about all my sleep-fogged brain could handle.

"You are really not a morning person," Ivan observed. I felt his cool hands hoist me by my armpits into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

"Considering I only fell asleep ..." I checked the digital clock on the nightstand, "... two and a half hours ago, I think I'm doing remarkably well."

He kissed the top of my head. "I would carry you to the car in your pajamas, but since you never wear pajamas, you'll have to put these on." He dropped a stack of some of the casual clothes I had stashed at his apartment on the rumpled sheets beside me.

"I wear pajamas when I go skiing," I mumbled fuzzily, jabbing one leg, then the other, through the correct holes of a cotton thong. I mentally congratulated myself for having navigated that obstacle, even though another part of me observed that my flash of pride was somewhat pathetic. "They're flannel with red buttons and little tiny skiers and pine trees printed all over them. A few of the skiers have crashed into some of the trees."

"Really? They sound lovely. Perhaps I'll have to take you skiing some day so I can see them." Ivan held out a bra for me – a bra that matched the thong, I noticed, impressed – and I slipped it on.

"I won't be wearing my skiing pajamas if you're with me," I promised.

He chuckled in wicked appreciation and headed for the living room. "I can't imagine us ever making it onto the slopes."

I quickly used the bathroom, cleaned my teeth and disturbingly fuzzy tongue with my new toothbrush, and finished dressing, my pace quickening with each garment. My boots were still in Ivan's closet, and I was pulling them on when he came back into the room with our coats.

"My bag?" I asked, accepting my oversized, secondhand army jacket from him.

"Already in the car."

That was nice, I thought, favoring him with soft smile. He had obviously waited until the last possible second before waking me.

I wrapped my arms around his neck. "How is it that you're so fresh at this ungodly hour?"

He snorted and kissed me. "I don't think 8:30 qualifies as 'ungodly'," he disputed. "And I slept for a bit yesterday before coming to the club." He interlaced my fingers with his and led me out to the kitchen.

"You took a nap?" I repeatedly incredulously. "I can't imagine you just taking a nap."

"You've napped with me," he protested. "How can you not imagine it?" I watched him pour a glass of orange juice and slide it across the granite island to me.

"Passing out in a blissed-out state of post-orgasmic exhaustion is hardly the same as deciding to lie down for a restorative snooze," I countered. The orange juice was perfect, and I started chugging it like beer at a frat party.

Ivan tossed back the last of his morning espresso. I finished my juice and, with bulging cheeks, handed the glass back to him to load into the dishwasher.

"I sleep when I need to," he shrugged, and I found myself wondering if that was a learned military mindset, or if he was simply incredibly practical. Probably military, I decided; Russians weren't particularly famous for their practicality.

A knock at the door startled me from my thoughts. Ivan slipped his arm around my shoulders and guided me to the door, kissing the top of my head again as we walked. I smiled to myself and hugged him around his lean waist. It felt like everything was right with the world. Then he opened the door.

Mateo's scowl was, if anything, even deeper than usual. Perhaps he wasn't a morning person, either.

"You're ready?" he asked, clipping his words with vexed precision.

"Yes," Ivan said simply. He quickly tapped a code into the alarm panel next to the door, pulled his keys from his coat pocket, and locked the apartment door behind us, then turned me toward the elevator.

Miami, here we come.