My thighs clench.
My back arches involuntarily. Heat floods my cheeks.
And somewhere in my brain, a tiny voice whispers:This is a terrible fucking idea.
“Miss Hewitt.”
The voice wraps around me like smoke. Deeply masculine. Russian accent threading through each syllable. It holds power. Control.
The kind of voice that makes you want to obey before he even gives an order.
My body reacts before my brain can slap it back into line.
I straighten my spine, forcing confidence into my posture even as my pulse stutters.
"Mr. Kozlov."
"You're early."
"Your assistant said you liked punctuality.”
Silence. I can feel him still watching me.
“Allow me...”
Then fingers skim the knot at the back of my head. The blindfold loosens.
When he lifts it, he does it slowly.
Like he’s savoring it.
Light spills in. Dim and golden. Intimate.
Then I’m looking at him.
Oh.
Oh no.
God help me, he’s devastating.
Winter in a tailored suit. Beautiful in a way that should come with a warning label.
He stands a few feet away, dressed in a black suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Broad shoulders. Stillness that radiates control.
His eyes are blue. Not friendly blue. Not warm blue.
Steel blue. Assessing. Deciding.
The kind of eyes that don’t blink when men beg.
He doesn’t smile.
He studies me like I’m a contract he hasn’t decided whether to sign… or burn.
Close up, the details sharpen. Black hair threaded with silver at the temples. Short graying beard framing a jaw cut to command.
The kind of silver fox women fantasize about.
