"The one between what you've been told to want and what you actually need." He released me, stepping back. Creating space I didn't ask for and couldn't bear. "So here's your choice. You can walk out that door. Sleep in the other room. I won't touch you. Won't come near you."
My heart lurched.
"Or you can stay. You can stop pretending this is something I'm forcing on you. Stop lying to yourself about what you want." His eyes burned into mine. "But if you stay, you don't get to hide behind my control. You don't get to pretend you're a victim of circumstance."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair." He sat back down on the bed, pulling me onto his lap but otherwise not touching me. He leaned back on his elbows. Giving me space. Giving me power I'd never asked for. "But it's real."
I expected him to lay me out on the bed, for his hands to be everywhere, holding me down, pinning me in whatever position he wanted me in as he used my body. But he didn’t.
I didn't want the choice. I wanted him to take me hard and fast. To take choice off the table, so I could lie to myself and pretend it wasn't what I wanted.
With one look in his eyes, I understood. He wasn't giving me what I wanted. He was giving me what I needed. Or at least pretending to.
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Outside, the city lights glittered against the black sky. Beautiful and indifferent.
My hands shook as they moved to the robe's collar. The fabric was impossibly soft against my fingers. Butter-soft cashmere that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
I thought about running. About locking myself in the bathroom and searching for something, anything, to use as a weapon or a way out.
But I didn't want out. That was the poisonous truth corroding everything I'd believed about myself.
I placed a sweet, chaste kiss on his lips before I got off his lap and stood in front of him.
His eyes were fiery as he watched every move I made, but he didn't leave the bed. After taking a few steps back, my cheeks warmed as I thought about what I was going to do.
My mother's voice echoed in my skull, sharp and cutting. Disappointment. Disgrace. Destroyer of everything good.
I shoved it down. Drowned it out. This wasn't about her, and it wasn't about the woman she wanted me to be. It was about the woman I wanted to be. And that was the question. What did I want?
"Anna?" Darius asked as he sat up.
"Don't," I said. "Don't move."
Leaning back on his elbows, he gave me space without actually moving away from me. I appreciated the gesture even ifI didn't fully trust it. I took a second to center myself, to take a deep breath in and out, and to look around the room.
He didn't have to take that necklace off of me. He chose to.
Tonight I was here because I wanted to be, not because I was under threat.
And then there was him. Darius Ivanov. Still wearing his tuxedo pants, his shoes had been kicked off at some point, and so had his socks, leaving his feet bare. His jacket had been discarded a while ago, and his silver bow tie lay open around his neck. The black shirt sleeves were surprisingly fitted, highlighting the sharp angle from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist. The cuffs had been rolled up, and even in the dim light I could see the lines of his tattoos.
Tribal markings that had a Slavic flair to them. They were harsh, but beautiful. Just like him.
I wanted him. God help me, I wanted him with a ferocity that terrified me.
I shouldn't want him, but I did. And tonight, even if it was just for this one night, I was giving myself permission. Permission to be not the girl my mother wanted, but the girl that I was, the girl I wanted to be.
I wanted to be confident, sexy, and I wanted to be the type of girl who knew what she wanted and how to take it.
My fingers found the belt of the robe again. The knot gave easily, and I let the cashmere fall open.
Cool air kissed bare skin. The robe gaped, revealing the valley between my breasts, the curve of my hip.
Darius's eyes took me in hungrily. He watched me as if he could devour me with a look alone. Every breath I took, every flutter of pulse at my throat—he tracked it all.
His hands flexed against the mattress. Tension coiled through his frame, predatory and patient.
