I finish my vodka and take a cold shower, but it does little to ease the intensity of my arousal. My cock is still half-hard when I slide into bed, and I toss and turn, restless until I finally fall asleep sometime after two in the morning,
I can’t help but dream of her.
In my dream, she’s in the museum again with me. I’m standing behind her, asking her about the paintings as I reach forward, wrapping one hand around her throat while the other presses between her breasts, feeling the warmth of her skin through the lace bodysuit she was wearing the day we met there. With every question, every answer, I move my hand across her body, teasing her nipples, sliding lower, stopping every time her voice breaks until she answers my questions.
I slide my hand into her jeans, pressing my erection against her ass as I slip my fingers into her panties, finding her soaking for me. The pleasure of the pressure of her body against me is almost too much, the eroticism of hearing her discuss art in a broken voice while I stroke her clit driving me to the edge. I rock myself against her, slowly grinding my rock-hard cock againstthe soft swell of her ass as I finger her, ignoring the people milling around us. They can watch, they can?—
The orgasm drags me from sleep. I wake with a ragged gasp and a groan, feeling my cock jerk and twitch as hot cum spills over my thighs and abdomen. My cock is throbbing madly, pleasure jolting through my body, and it takes everything in me not to reach down and stroke myself through the last exquisite pulses.
I fling the sheets back, cursing aloud in Russian as I stare down at the mess on my thighs, flicking on the bedside light. I haven’t come in my sleep like that since I was a teenager, but the evidence is there, proof that my body was pushed to the limit.
My jaw tightens, anger building within me at the loss of control. I stalk to the bathroom, turning the shower on ice cold, and fling myself under the water, hissing as I wash the cum from my body, forcing my still-sensitive cock under the icy spray.
I was supposed to come withher. Not like this. Shame washes over me, and I dig my nails into my thigh, roughly washing myself with the other hand until I’m shivering from the cold.
I don’t bother drying off. I just go back to bed, lying wet in the sheets as I stare up at the ceiling, furious with myself for failing so quickly.
After an hour of lying there awake, I get up. I can’t sleep, so instead I go to my laptop and look at the footage of her in her office. Just the sight of her is enough to have me half-hard again, and I ignore it, the arousal less pleasant now. The memory of my inability to control myself is still too close.
Instead, I watch her work. There's something hypnotic about the way she moves through her space, the way she tilts her head when she's thinking, her focus as she reads. In one clip, she's on the phone with a client, and I can see the exact moment sheconfirms the sale. I can see the way her eyes light up, the smile that spreads across her face. She's good at this. Better than good.
In another, she's alone, eating lunch at her desk—a salad she picked up from somewhere, barely touching it as she scrolls through something on her computer. She looks tired. Distracted.
I wonder if she's thinking about Boston.
If she's thinking about me.
The thought sends something dark and possessive through my chest.
My phone buzzes. I look down, and see that it’s Kazimir.
“Ronan O’Malley wants a meeting,” he says without preamble.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Set it up for next week."
"Ilya." His voice carries a warning, rare for him. "What are we doing here?"
My jaw tightens. "I told you. Business."
"What business? We have no operations in Manhattan that require your personal attention. And you haven’t met with anyone since we’ve arrived." He’s never questioned me before, but he is now. Whatever grace he’s earned over years of loyalty, he’s using it now, and I can’t exactly blame him. I’m well aware that my behavior is odd. Erratic, even. Not what he, or any of my men, are used to from me.
I don't answer. On my laptop screen, Mara is standing in front of a painting, her arms crossed, studying it with that intense focus she gets.
"Ilya," Kazimir says again. "Talk to me."
"I'll be back in Boston by next weekend."
Will I? I don’t think a week and a half is enough time to have Mara under my spell, not entirely enough to warrant returning to Boston. But if not, I have no intention of leaving.
"This is about the woman." It's not a question. Kazimir knows me too well. "The one from the museum."
"Her name is Mara,"I remind him sharply.
"Ilya, this is—" He stops himself. When he speaks again, his voice is careful. "This isn't like you."
I want to argue, to tell him to fuck off, but he's right. It isn't.
I've never been reckless. I’ve never let anything distract me from the empire, from the balance of power and violence that keeps me alive and in control.
