CHAPTER Fifty Love scintilla (n.) a tiny brilliant flash or spark; a small thing; a barely visible trace Wila EicurT Hours LATER, I GLANCED out the window of the private jet. “Ronan... did Moscow get an Eiffel Tower of its own recently?” “T would never allow that kind of romantic tourism in my city.” “Huh,” I mused. “So why am I seeing the Eiffel Tower right now?” “We’re in Paris,” he said indifferently. And that had been his attitude the entire flight: indifferent. He and those stupid “Delicious!” sounds coming from his phone were driving me crazy. Albert wasn’t any better company. He was flipping through a Cosmo in the row of seats at the front of the plane. I hadn’t seen Ronan in four months. I’d been burning up for eight hours waiting for him to touch me, kiss me, and drag me to the convenient bed in the back. But he hadn’t done any of that. When I got tired of waiting, I’d straddled his lap, ran my lips down his neck, and cupped his erection as it grew harder beneath my hand. I thought I was finally going to get what I wanted, but then he shoved me off him to the couch and said, “I’m saving myself for marriage, kotyonok.” I glared at him. He thought it was funny. Frustrated, I got up and sat on the couch across from him. I’d just keep Khaos company. He looked bored with me too, but at least he tolerated my presence. “You’re cute when you’re pouting,” Ronan said.