Her head tips back, a moan slipping free as I slide one finger inside, then another, curling them upward, making her clench around me. The tight heat of her drives me wild, but I control myself, savoring her surrender, her pleasure.
“Vladimir, please,” she gasps, her voice a desperate plea.
“Please what?” I tease, my free hand gripping her thigh, spreading her wider. “Tell me what you want, Teresa. Tell me you want my fingers fucking you until you come.” I quicken my pace, thrusting deeper, my thumb relentless on her clit, her body trembling.
“I want you to make me come,” she chokes out, uncertainty and desire warring in her eyes. Her words are a surrender that sets my blood on fire.
“Good, because I intend to,” I reply. Her body responds, a fresh wave of slickness coating my fingers. I drive deeper, faster, her moans filling the car, obscene and perfect. Her nails dig into my wrist as I push her to the edge with precision. “Come for me, Teresa. Let me feel you shatter.”
She cries out when her climax hits hard, her body pulsing around my fingers, thighs shaking. I draw it out, milking every shudder, every gasp, until she’s limp and panting, clinging tome. I withdraw slowly, fingers glistening, and bring them to my lips, tasting her with a groan that makes her eyes widen.
“Perfect,” I murmur, then adjust her clothes so carefully it feels like a lie against the hunger roaring inside me.
The car rolls to a stop. I slide back, unbuckle, and open the door, the city’s chill rushing in. My place isn’t far from here, a good distance for a winter walk.
“Dmitri,” I speak through the intercom, voice calm despite the ache in my trousers, “take Ms. Winslow home.”
She’s dazed, lips parted, eyes glassy with want. “Vladimir?” she whispers, yearning for more, for me.
I pause, half out the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,kotenok.”
I step out and shut the door. Dmitri drives off, and I’m left with the taste of her on my tongue, the desperate need in her eyes burned into my mind, counting the hours until tomorrow.
CHAPTER 8
TERESA
The subway car lurches under Canal Street, fluorescent lights flickering, casting the other riders in eerie, ghostly glows.
I grip the strap of my tote with one hand, the other wrapped around the cool metal pole, trying to anchor myself while fighting against my traitorous mind, which keeps pulling me back to Vladimir Angeloff.
His hands, his voice, hiseverythinghaunts me, as vividly now as if I was back in the moment. My mind drifts…
“You’re trembling, kotenok,” he growled, voice vibrating through my bones. “Is it fear or something sweeter?”
The subway jolts, snapping me back.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as if other subway passengers can read my thoughts. Since that night in the car, Vladimir’s been a phantom in the office again. Curt emails, orders relayed through Dmitri, nothing more than a fleeting glimpse of his profile.
Hot, cold, gone. Is this his game? Reeling women in then leaving them aching for more?
Or am I weaving meaning into a man too consumed by his empire to chase a single, breath-stealing moment? My fingers tighten on the pole, the metal cold against the heat of my skin, yearning for answers only he can give.
I don’t like it. Maxim’s face appears every time desire flares, gentle eyes clouded by death, asking whether I’m still his wife in spirit or if I’ve already walked away from our vows. I always whisper the same apology:I’m not replacing you. I’m just trying to keep living. The guilt always settles back in, never fully cleared.
The train screeches into Wall Street Station. Doors open, exhaling the stale, electrified air unique to New York’s underbelly. I step onto the platform and join the surge up the concrete stairs into the night.
Above ground, the financial district glitters beneath December’s early darkness—skyscrapers draped in white LEDs, giant wreaths shining like emerald halos over revolving doors, miniature tornadoes of artificial snow swirling in storefront displays. The city goes all-in on Christmas, and I’ve always loved it—still do—even if the cheer feels slightly out of tune with my life.
However, I’m not here for the lights. I’m here for the packet I stupidly left on my desk—thirty pages of revised escrow terms Vlad needs for an eight-a.m. call to Zurich. No intern is going to trek across the river at nine?p.m. to fetch it. I forgot it, it’s my responsibility.
I quicken my pace, heels tapping a brisk echo down the polished canyon of Broad Street. Angeloff Holdings rises ahead, forty stories of glass and steel, its lobby atrium glowing amber like a hearth.
I pull my coat tighter against the wind and pause for half a breath, staring up at the reflections of Christmas lights scattered across the smooth façade. My pulse picks up, accustomed to associating this building with equal parts safety and danger.
A cab whooshes by, kicking up slush. I dodge the spray and stride toward the revolving doors, thoughts already on tomorrow’s agenda and the thin possibility of seeing Vladimir for more than a fleeting second, though I doubt it. If he’s playing a game, I need to learn the rules fast. If he’s simply buried in work, I need thicker skin.
The doors glide open with a soft sigh, and I step into the hush of marble and evergreen, the scent of fresh pine cutting through the institutional clean. A solo sax rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” drifts from hidden sound surround speakers. I ignore the bittersweet pull of it and head for the elevator bank—eyes forward, mind on contracts—pretending my heart isn’t still tangled in the memory of a man who kisses like he wants to devour me.
