Vertical wooden slats, a raised ceiling with recessed lights, and windows make up the outside wall and offer a panoramic view of Chicago. The window and wood in the gigantic suite create perfect soundproofing. Good thing, too, or our voices would ring off the glass tables, rug-accented marble floors, and the giant impressionist framed art piece over the bed.
Kirill stands near the desk set against an interior wall, inspecting his reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door like he doesn’t recognize himself.
The fine wool hugs his torso, and the stark white of the dress shirt forms an ideal canvas for the deadly allure of hiseyes. His expression could freeze blood, and he keeps rolling his shoulders like he considers the fabric a cage.
I can only think of how desperately I want to strip every perfectly tailored inch off him, hence why I stationed myself as far from the pristine white king-sized bed and leather upholstered couch in the middle of the room as possible. I hover near a matching leather ottoman that’s located at a much safer distance.
Swallowing hard, I order my mind back to the mission and away from how the bespoke pants frame his thighs. How his hands appear darker and more dangerous against the crisp white cuffs.
“You look like you’re about to assassinate someone.” I use a light, casual tone that doesn’t belie the heat pooling low in my belly.
He tugs at his collar and turns to the side. “I might.”
The mental image of a shark wearing a collar pops into my head, forcing me to suppress a giggle.
“No, you’re going to smile and be polite. My stepfather is one of the insiders. He’s all money, privilege, and power. If he suspects a mafia guy just waltzed into his home?” I shake my head, the possibilities too dark to name. My throat tightens. “And my mother? No. You have to blend in.”
Against my better judgment, I approach and slowly circle him, drinking in every inch, attempting to see him through my mother’s eyes. His posture is too alert, too ready, like a predator who refuses to bother disguising himself as anything else.
“Okay. Your name’s not Kirill. It’s ‘Ken.’”
His expression blanks. “Ken?”
“Kirill stands out. No one knows a Kirill. Everyone knows a Ken. Ken Barlow. You’re in…commodities. From out of town.” I keep circling, watching him for any sign of yielding. “And you find everything utterly fascinating.”
Doubts needle my stomach. Can he do this? Or is this the equivalent of asking a shark to pass as a goldfish?
I can’t dim his intensity or soften those edges.
He’s everything that doesn’t belong in my mother’s pristine world.
“Can you smile? Like, you know, just a regular, happy smile?”
God help him, he tries. His lips peel back to bare his teeth while his eyes remain cold and calculating. No warmth at all.
I cringe and backpedal. “Okay, no smiling. Just try to appear a little less murder-y.” I inch closer to straighten his bow tie and smooth the lapels of his jacket.
He stiffens under my touch, not quite pulling away, but not yielding. His pulse beats at his throat, visible just above his collar. “This ‘Ken Barlow,’ he doesn’t shake hands, does he?”
“We’ll work on that.” I finish my adjustments as I try to ignore how my own pulse jumps with each touch. I’m balancing on my toes, my body almost flush against his. “There. You look like a magnificent…” I have no reason to lie, “…shark.”
I start to create some space between us before I do something stupid, like press my mouth to the vein at his throat, but his hands shoot out and clamp around my wrists. Not hard enough to hurt, but refusing to let me retreat.
His deep, penetrating eyes burn with an intensity I can’t name. He’s no Ken Barlow, but he’s one-thousand-percent Kirill.
I wait for him to tug me closer, to take what I’ve been silently offering all day.
Instead, he backs away, breaks contact, and strides toward the bed.
I stand frozen as he methodically undoes his bow tie—the perfect one I just fixed—and tosses the fabric aside.
He removes his jacket, each motion precise and deliberate. His eyes never leave mine as he continues stripping, layers falling away and revealing the body I know too well.
And dropping tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of wool and linen on the floor to wrinkle.
My mouth goes dry as he stretches out on the bed in just his pants, all lean muscle, scars, and intent. “What are you doing?”
Kirill relaxes on his elbows, the picture of arrogant ease, though a line of tension hums through him. “You’ve been eye-fucking me for hours. Now I’m giving you a chance to do it for real.”
