Kind. Demanding and crass—and wonderful.
And God, he’s sexy.
Effortlessly, dizzyingly sexy.
It happens to everyone, right? People get swept up in the moment. It doesn’t mean it means anything.
I can tell him that. A weak woman wouldn’t confront the person she just ran from. Clear the air, no problem. I’m not a naïve little girl who can’t handle a little attraction between two adults. That’s all it was. Attraction.
It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.
I’m hyped enough to throw open the door. I start walking before I can think too much about it.
A few steps, and my knuckles are raised to knock on his office door.
And then, a deep, toe-curling moan sounds from the door on the left. My hand jerks back, trembling against my chest. My heart thuds beneath it.
The door to his bedroom isn’t fully closed. It’s a sliver ajar, as if it just didn’t latch when he shut it.
I should knock, regardless.
Actually, I should go back to my room, take off this divine dress, and go to sleep. With my head sandwiched between two pillows. Pretend Iosif Yuri does not exist.
But I do neither of those things.
My fickle body gravitates toward the torrid, guttural sound that spills toward me. I lean in, helplessly peering in through the crack.
The ground beneath my feet tilts.
He’s sprawled out in his bed, all his propriety undone when his black shirt hangs open. City lights paint his chest in muted neons. The way his chest rises and falls is cinematic. It’s so like—yet entirely different from—the way I’d been panting behind my door minutes ago.
His impeccably tailored suits make no secret of his physique. Still, the sight of him leaves me winded.
That’s before my gaze drips down his magnificent body.
And I stop breathing at all.
The ripples of toned muscle no longer hold my attention. It’s been stolen by his hand.
His hand, that’s wrapped around his—
Oh, sweet Jesus.
I gasp for air that won’t come.
I know the size of those hands. I have felt them at the small of my back… the side of my hip. One does not cover the length of his erection.
His head tips back against his ivory pillows, giving me a view I will never get out of my head. His erection is swollen and dewy within his fist. His strokes are anything but gentle.
My thighs clench together involuntarily.
I should go. Oh my God. I need to go.
But then he groans again, and it sinks into me like a dagger buried in a target. I am transfixed, pinned in place. Watching him. Watching his pace quicken, his wrist twisting into every stroke.
I am sick. I am a perverse, sick woman. A shameless Peeping Tom.
And he is a work of art. The tendons in his hand flex. The veins in his forearm bulge. His every breath is heavy, turning ragged and raw.
