Tomorrow will be business as usual.
CHAPTER 6
TERESA
Vlad’s mouth is at my throat.
His shirt is open, hard planes of muscle inked in black and gunmetal grey—a winged blade over his heart, a line of Cyrillic script tracking the ridge of one pec, scars feathered pale beneath the ink.
My calves lock behind his waist, heels digging into the thick muscle of his back as he drives into me deep, each thrust a strike that knocks all rationale loose, my walls clenching around him. I clutch his shoulders and my head snaps back as I hear myself begging for him to bring me over the edge…
Knock-knock.
My eyes fly open to the harsh brightness of my monitor. Desk. Office. Noon. Shit. I jerk upright so fast I almost spill my iced coffee. “Come in!”
Katie from the executive floor pokes her head inside, tablet in hand, ponytail swaying. “Running a Sweetgreen order. You want anything? Kale Caesar? Warm bowls?”
I blink, brain re-threading itself from sex vision to spreadsheet. “Uh, no, thanks. I brought lunch.” I gesture to the Tupperware container of roasted chicken and quinoa sitting on my desk.
She steps inside another foot and squints at me. “You feeling okay?”
“Fine,” I answer too fast.
She tilts her head, studying my face. “You’re flushed. Like,reallyflushed. Do you have a fever?”
Heat spikes and I slap a palm to my cheek. She’s right, my skin’s on fire. With my mother’s coloring I flush dark. Right now, I probably look sunburned. Great.
“Coffee,” I blurt. “I’ve had—” I count cups in my head, lose track, wave the number off. “Too much caffeine. It happens.”
Katie laughs. “Girl, switch to decaf before you stroke out. I’ll grab you a sparkling water.” She heads toward the door. “Ping me if you change your mind.”
“Thanks,” I manage.
I drop my head into my hands and groan. Fantastic. Office gossip by one p.m. will be:Teresa’s overheating.Correction:Teresa’s overheating because she can’t stop reliving the night she let the boss unwrap her like a Christmas present and screw her brains out by a fire.
That was two nights ago and Vlad’s been a ghost—constantly in meetings, closed-door conference calls, shuttled between armored SUVs and boardrooms. I’ve fielded travel confirmations, patched him into a Zurich teleconference, and rearranged the Baltimore schedule twice, but actual face time has been maybe four minutes total, and all of it strictly business.
Send the draft. Confirm the escrow. Eight a.m. briefing.
No chemistry. No sly looks. Not even a tease about my humiliating search history.
Is he giving me space? Testing whether I’ll crack? Pretending nothing happened? I chew the inside of my cheek. Maybe this is mercy. I do need space. Because when I let my guard drop even for a second, my body reruns the scene on a loop. His weight pinning me, the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow along my collarbone, the way his tattoos moved when he rolled his hips. The way he growled my name, the shudder of his body when he spilled into me…
I open my calendar to anchor myself in work. One p.m. vendor call. Two-thirty compliance review. Four o’clock travel recon for Vlad/Dmitri Baltimore run. Numbers. Logistics. I can control these things.
I take a long pull from my iced coffee, pressing the cold plastic to my cheeks until the burn dulls. I need to look and act professional. Neutral. Lord knows I need the distance. Because one more night like that and I won’t remember which side of the desk I work on.
My phone buzzes with a text while I’m sorting vendor invoices.
Caffè Trieste at six still good?
My stomach does a tiny flip. Trina Volkov—Aleksander’s niece and Maxim’s cousin. Also the one person in that family who hasn’t tried to ruin me. She was the mediator after the gala, the voice that convinced Aleksander to call off the first wave of lawyers and guns. If she wants to meet, I go.
See you then, I text back and log off for the day.
Caffè?Trieste sits on West Broadway, an old brick nook humming with low jazz and espresso steam. I choose a two-top in the back where the frost on the window blurs passing traffic. Trina slips through the door in a wool pea coat and dark sunglasses even though dusk is settling. Incognito, as always. She waves to the barista, then threads her way to me, sliding the glasses into her hair.
“Rough week?” she asks, shrugging off the coat.
