Read Online Roulette by Megan Mulry - Free Book Online

homemade food that her husband makes in the tiny kitchen at the back—traditional shashlik and khachapuri on mismatched plates with banged-up cutlery—and it is really . . . fun.
    We finish the simple meal with strong coffee and a plate of powdered rosewater sweets. For all his supposed eagerness, I am starting to feel like Rome has decided he wants to make me wait—or lead, or something—before we go to the next level.
    I take another sip from the tiny demitasse cup. The saucer is delicate Russian porcelain, edged in a swirl of pink, chipped at one side. Like so much in Russia, I think, delicate and slightly damaged, but enduring nonetheless. I look up to see Rome has finished paying the older woman and is staring at me. He reaches across the small, rough wood table and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. His touch sends a thrill down my spine.
    “Ready?” he asks softly.
    “I was.” I tilt my head. “But now I’m not so sure.”
    He smiles sweetly and raises his palms. “I am at your command. Take as long as you like.” He glances at the dregs of my espresso and the half-a-sweet that’s sitting on the mismatched porcelain plate between us, even though we both know we are no longer talking about whether or not to leave the restaurant.
    He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. I watch as his cheeks pull in on the drag and his eyes crease and narrow. I watch the way his finger lightly touches his bottom lip as he pulls the cigarette away from his mouth. I am so turned on by his mouth.
    “I can’t believe you are still allowed to smoke in restaurants here,” I say, trying to change the subject. As if that’s the reason I’m staring at his lips.
    “Funny ideas of freedom, eh? In your land of the free?”
    I look away from him. Why must he talk about freedom? It crashes my mood right down to the cracked and patched linoleum floor beneath my feet.
    When I finally meet his eyes again, he pauses to see if I want to answer, then flicks the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray and shrugs. “Sorry. I guess talk of freedom is not fun.”
    “You’re right. It’s not.” I sound moody, and I don’t like it. “Let me have a cigarette.”
    He smiles like the devil he is. Corrupting the youth. He tips the cigarette out of the pack, and I feel like a million girls have had the same hand make the same offering gesture. And then I look into his eyes and feel like the only woman in the world. I put the cigarette to my lips, and he snaps the gold lighter open and strikes the flint.
    I inhale and try to look seductive . . . then cough horribly, eyes watering, chest burning. That smoke is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever experienced. “Ewww!” I gasp between inhalations of clean air and sips of water. “That is so revolting. What the hell are you thinking?” I drink more water.
    He takes the cigarette out of my hand and slowly stamps it out in the brown glass ashtray on the table. I wipe at my eyes with my napkin.
    “Honestly, I think I might throw up,” I wheeze.
    “Maybe the French ones are too strong for you.”
    I know what he’s saying: maybe he is too strong for me. I have to give him credit—in a backward way, he’s trying to be a gentleman, to give me a last opportunity to scuttle away from my imminent indiscretion.
    “They’re not for everyone,” he adds.
    I burst out laughing at that, because the truth is, he probably sleeps with nearly everyone. I wipe at my eyes one last time, then put my napkin on the table.
    “The French cigarettes might be too strong for me, but I don’t think you are.” I feel bold and empowered. I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. “Let’s go.”
    We stand up at the same time, and I nearly stumble when he pulls me into a rough embrace. I think I hear the older woman give a low whistle as she retreats back toward the kitchen. When he finishes kissing me—because that’s what is happening: I am being kissed as I half stand, half cave in to