I don’t say anything more. God. He’s really touchy today.
For the next few hours, I watch him from the corner of my eye. He's clearly still fuming about whatever went wrong on that call. He keeps checking his phone, sending out frantic messages, and occasionally muttering under his breath in Russian.
The evening turns warmer, and Valentin loosens his tie in rapid movements that shouldn't be as sexy as they are. He pulls it off completely, tossing it onto his desk before unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt.
I swallow hard and go back to pretending to focus on the email I've been trying to compose for the last twenty minutes.
But then I hear the sound of rustling fabric and look up again. He’s rolling up his sleeves, and I actually forget to breathe for a second. His arms are beautiful in this light, corded with muscle, the black ink from the tattoo sleeves reflecting all light.
God. There's something ridiculously hot about a man in a business shirt with the sleeves rolled up, especially when that man looks like he could bench press a car.
Once again, I pry my eyes away, but it takes a lot of mental force to do so.
His phone rings away, and I don’t bother looking up this time, knowing all I’ll see is a frown.
But it’s the softness in his voice that surprises me. “Hello, Darya.”
It’s his sister. My eyes flicker over to him, and he’s leaning back in his chair now, a small, gentle smile playing on his face. Is this the same Valentin I’ve spent the day with? Impossible.
“Is everything okay, little sis?”
He calls her little sis, and I near melt.
It's like watching a different man emerge. His entire posture relaxes, and the hard lines of his face melt into a soft kindness. His voice, which had been cold and fierce moments ago, now flows like warm honey.
“Of course I'm coming to your art show,” he gushes. “I wouldn't miss it... No, Nadya already told me what to wear... Yes, I'll bring flowers... Don't worry so much.”
I can't stop staring. This tenderness is so unexpected, and at odds with the criminal I know him to be. When he smiles while speaking to his sister, it lights up his whole face. When he laughs, it warms the corners of my heart. When he says he’ll do something, he sounds like he means it.
I find myself wondering what it would be like if he turned that smile on me, and whether it’d look just that innocent.
And just like that, my mind wanders to dangerous territory.
I imagine him hanging up the phone and walking toward my desk in slow, predatory steps. In my thoughts, he's still got that soft smile, but there's heat in his eyes now. He wheels my chair back from the desk and forces me to look up at him.
“You've been watching me all day,” he’ll whisper, and that voice will kiss my spine. “Did you think I wouldn't notice?”
In this dangerous daydream, I don't shrink away. I meet his gaze boldly. “So what if I was?”
He leans down, and his hands are on my armrests until he’s got me caged in. “So I think we should stop pretending.”
His face is now inches from mine, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. His thumb carefully brushes the corner of my chin, and I let out a small gasp.
“Pretending what?” I whisper.
“That you don't want me as badly as I want you.”
The next thing I know, he’s kissing me. But it’s not gentle. It’s ferocious, screaming volumes of how bad he wants me. I tilt my neck to make more space, and his hand slides to the back of my neck, digging in until I’m a hot mess.
I imagine his other hand trailing across my collarbone, dipping lower to trace the neckline of my blouse. His fingers brush against the swell of my breast, and even in reality, I find my thighs clench.
He breaks the kiss and whispers in my ear. “I've wanted to do this since the first time I saw you.”
His hand moves lower, past my waist to the hem of my skirt. In my mind, I don’t stop him. I part my legs slightly in an invitation, and he slides his hand up my thigh, his touch leaving fire in its wake.
His fingers slip beneath my panties, finding me already wet for him, and I jerk back to reality just as I find myself holding back an actual, real moan.
My face burns with embarrassment. What if I’d moaned and Valentin had heard me?
