His gaze locks on my bare legs, travels slowly upward, pausing at the hem of his shirt, then lifts to my face as if to confirm I’m real.
Heat floods his eyes. Control frays in a visible crack I swear I could hear.
“I, um—” My voice wobbles. “I didn’t have anything else to wear.”
He moves towards me like a storm gathering its strength.
“That looks better on you than on me,” he says, voice low and rough.
My knees nearly buckle.
He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls something out. My earbuds. Then he dips, and when he stands he has a box filled with the stuff from my locker in the maid’s quarters.
“You left these,” he says. “I assume you still want to learn Russian.”
I stare. “Yes.”
He steps closer, every inch a calm predator, and places the earbuds gently in my palm. His fingers brush mine.
“I could help you,” he adds. “If you want.”
I don’t know why that makes my throat tighten. Maybe because he’s offering something that isn’t part of the contract.
“I’d like that,” I whisper.
Something warms in his expression. A flicker of satisfaction he doesn’t hide fast enough.
He wants me to understand him. Not just his orders. Him.
“Lunches,” he says, voice low and certain. “Every afternoon, we eat together. And we speak only Russian.”
It sounds less like a lesson and more like a claim.
His jaw clenches. Hard. Like he’s fighting urges I’m too naïve to understand. He breathes in slowly, nostrils flaring. “How do you feel this morning?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a very attentive truck,” I admit.
A sound escapes him. It’s half-laugh, half-groan. He reaches and trails one finger lightly along the inside of my thigh.
“Sore?”
My breath stutters. “A little.”
His hand withdraws instantly. “It’s stipulated in our agreement that you rest today. A day of recovery is mandatory after the first time.”
He’s trying to be clinical. Detached. It’s not working. I can see the fraying edges of his restraint, and I like it.
“But I don’t want to rest,” I say quietly.
That’s when the façade breaks.
His eyes darken. His chest rises as he sucks in a breath meant to steady him, and fails. He closes the distance between us in two long strides.
“If I touch you again right now,” he murmurs, voice a delicious threat, “I won’t stop. And you are already hurting.”
“I don’t mind the ache,” I whisper. “It makes me feel real. It reminds me of what we did. I really enjoyed what we did.”
He curses under his breath in Russian, and it sounds all too dangerous, too intimate. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the desk in his office.
