His eyes flared. In one smooth motion, he guided me back into the fitting room and clicked the lock behind us.
The space was small, all mirrors and soft lighting, which meant I could see us from every angle as he pressed me against the wall. His mouth found mine again, demanding now, his hands sliding down to grip my hips.
“This dress,” he muttered against my lips. “I’m going to dream about you in this dress.”
“Then maybe you should take it off me.”
He groaned, low and rough, and reached for the zipper at my back. The satin pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties. He stepped back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving.
“God, Mireille.”
I reached for him, tugging his shirt free from his pants. “Your turn.”
He let me unbutton his shirt, watching my fingers with hooded eyes. When I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and pressed my palms to his bare chest, he shuddered.
“We have to be quiet,” he warned, even as his hands unclasped my bra. “Can you do that for me?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, gasping as his mouth found my neck. “You make it hard to think.”
“Then I’ll help you.” He covered my mouth with his, swallowing my moan as his hand slipped inside my panties.
The first stroke of his fingers made me buck against him. He held me steady with his other arm, working me with devastating precision. The mirrors reflected us—his dark head bent over me, my face flushed with pleasure, our bodies pressed together in the small space.
“That’s it,” he murmured against my throat. “Let go,kukolka. I’ve got you.”
He added a second finger, curling both just right, and I had to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. The pressure built impossibly fast, my body wound so tight I thought I might shatter.
“Come for me,” he commanded softly. “Now.”
I broke apart with a muffled cry, my whole body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed through me. He held me through it, stroking me gently until the last tremor faded.
When I could finally open my eyes, he was watching me with a mix of tenderness and barely restrained hunger.
“Your turn,” I whispered, reaching for his belt.
He caught my wrist. “Later. Tonight, after the opera, I’m going to take my time with you.” His voice was a promise, dark and rich. “But right now, I need to buy you this dress before the saleswoman comes back and finds us like this.”
I laughed, breathless and giddy. “What if she already knows?”
“Then I’ll buy out the entire store, and she can keep our secret.” He kissed me once more, soft and sweet, then handed me my bra. “Get dressed,kukolka. We have an opera to attend.”
I floated through the rest of that afternoon on a cloud of anticipation, knowing that whatever came after the opera would be worth the wait.
If only I’d known what was coming.
The memory fades, leaving an ache in its place. That was only hours ago, but it feels like another lifetime—when my biggest worry was whether I’d be able to stay quiet in a dressing room, not whether the man I love would survive the night.
Alexei comes to sit beside me, his presence dragging me out of my thoughts.
“Mireille,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I need to tell you something.”
I look up, startled.
He continues, “Before the dinner. Before any of this, he told us he wouldn’t use you. He said he refused to touch your father’s investigation. He said you meant too much that he intended to pursue a relationship with you regardless of the danger it posed to the family.”
My heart twists painfully in my chest. “Really?” I whisper.
Alexei gives a faint nod. “Yes. He was prepared to take the fall for the family if it came to it. But he wasn't going to use your family anymore.”
