"Don't wanna?" His fingers ghosted my cheek, they trailed from cheekbone to jaw—agonizingly slow, feather-light, but electric. "Or you want me to make up for your wasted time... some other way?"
"Other way," and his eyes dropped—my lips, throat, collarbone, then lower, to my chest.
My knees nearly buckled.
"I'll send 'em!" It came out a yelp, and the pitch went way off.
He grinned, all smug satisfaction. He stepped back, and he finally gave me air. But just as I thought I could bail, he bent low, and his lips brushed my ear.
Warm breath ghosted my skin. "Remember—only to me. If I catch wind you shared with anyone else..."
He trailed off.
That pause hit harder than any threat.
"I'll be pissed."
He straightened, he smoothed his cuff like it was nothing, and then he melted back into the crowd—all grace.
I sagged against the wall, my legs turned to jelly, and I was about to puddle on the floor.
Sweat slicked my palms; the card crumpled in my fist.
Outside, the cold wind slapped my face like a wake-up call.
I shivered, and it snapped me back a bit.
On the curb, I stared at the mangled card, and I replayed it all—his stare, voice, finger heat, that scent...
My pulse kicked up again.
Alexander Volkov.
The name echoed in my skull like a spell.
He was bad news. I knew it—from the way he eyed me, the edge in his tone, that crushing aura. He was not a good guy.
But damn, he was magnetic.
My throat went dry.
I shook it off hard. Snap out of it, Anna. You are here to work! Not crush like a teenager.
Work slammed reality home like ice water.
I had bombed—no usable shots. I wasted three hours, cab fare, makeup, and—
Fuck.
The editor was gonna rip me tomorrow.
Back at my dump of an apartment, the door creaked open to that musty, damp funk.
The tiny shoebox measured fifteen square feet tops. Cracks snaked the walls from ceiling to floor. Mildew bloomed black onthe plaster. Furniture? The bed, a wobbly table, and a mini-fridge that barely cooled.
I yanked off the wig, I kicked the torture-leather and heels, I swapped for my ratty holey tee as PJs, and I crashed on the bed. New York's frozen night stared back through the grimy window. I held up the card that I had clutched all night—black, premium as hell, gleaming fake-dreamy in the shitty lamp light.
A long beat passed, then I tucked it in my bag, I fired up the laptop, and I figured I should hunt for a backup shot to turn in. But my mouse betrayed me, it clicked straight to Alexander Volkov's pics.
