I press my palm flat to the desk, grounding myself against the surge of possessive hunger.
I will not break my own rules. I will not lose control. I will—
A soft sound drifts from the stairs. A sleepy footstep. The brush of her hand on the bannister.
My resolve burns to ash.
I’m moving before I even know what I’m doing.
Charlotte
I wake slowly, like surfacing from a deep, warm ocean I didn’t want to leave.
My body aches everywhere. A low, heavy throb between my thighs. Muscles sore in places I didn’t know existed. My scent and his scent tangled in the sheets around me. Heat rushes through my cheeks as flashes of last night hit me.
His mouth pressed against me. His hands stroking and squeezing. His voice telling me to breathe. His body moving inside mine until I forgot pain even had a name.
I press my fingers to my lips. They still feel kissed.
My body still hums with everything he did to me. Everything he said. The Russian words from yesterday’s lesson flicker uninvited through my mind, ? ?? ???????.
But I do understand.
I understand that when he spoke to me in Russian, low and rough and right against my skin, it wasn’t just a language. It was possession.
I trace my bottom lip with the pad of my thumb and picture his mouth shaping the consonants before it did such wicked, sinful things to me… I turn and reach out for him, but the other side of the bed is empty. Cool.
Of course he’d be up early, buttoned into one of those perfect suits, pretending last night was a transaction instead of the world cracking open and letting fire in.
At least, that’s what happened to me.
I sit up with a soft gasp, tenderness sharp in my center. I move carefully, testing. My entire lower body complains, but beneath it…is something else. Something like pride. Like proof that I’m not invisible anymore.
The shower calls to me, a promise of warmth. I pad into the bathroom, wincing a little with every step. My breath leaves me when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Neck and chest marked by his mouth. Inner thighs bruised by his grip. Eyes bright, skin flushed, lips swollen.
I look ruined. I look alive.
Under the hot spray, I close my eyes and let the water pound into tight muscles. My thoughts flip restlessly between What have I done? and I’d do it again.
When I emerge wrapped in a towel, reality hits. I have no clothes.
Everything I owned fit into a bottom locker in the maid’s wing. What am I supposed to do, go down to breakfast in a bath towel and ask if Sophia has a spare sweater?
My gaze lands on the chair where he tossed his shirt last night. White. Crisp. Expensive. It smells like him. Clean cold air and something dangerous.
I slip it on.
It swallows me whole, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The collar gapes, showing the marks he left. The sleeves fall past my hands. I roll them clumsily and tell myself this is fine. This is respectable enough in what is our own private wing of a huge house.
My heart climbs into my throat as I step out into the hallway. I have to find him. Ask about breakfast. Ask about clothes. Ask about… everything.
Or maybe just see him again. Make sure last night wasn’t something he regrets.
I follow the quiet stretch of the corridor and head down the stairs. He appears in the doorway at the base of the stairs. Dark suit. Crisp shirt. Perfect hair. The opposite of me in every conceivable way.
He looks at me, and the look on his face steals the floor from beneath me.
