She pauses in the doorway, that damn shirt still sliding off her shoulder.
“Next time you want to wander around my house half-naked…” I let my eyes drag over her bare legs one last time. “Remember who you’re dealing with.”
Her laugh is all smoke and promises. “Or what, Kuznetsov?”
The doors close before I can answer, but it doesn’t matter.
We both know this isn’t over.
13
Clara
“Who the fuck does he think he is?”
My back hits the bedroom door, waiting for the click of a lock that never comes.
“Controlling piece of shit,” I mutter, stalking toward the walk closet. “Self-righteous, arrogant—”
The words bounce off the walk-in closet’s mirrors, and— Oh.
Well, shit.
My reflection tells me exactly who he thinks he is: the guy whose white shirt is currently doing a piss-poor job of covering anything important. The fabric is so thin that I might as well be wearing nothing. And speaking of nothing, the lack of a bra is making things… obvious.
My nipples are hard under his shirt, poking through the thin fabric like they’re begging for attention. The shirt’s slipped off one shoulder, and my hair’s a wild mess, making me look like I’ve been thoroughly fucked instead of… kidnapped.
Biting down my lips, I roll my shoulders back, trying to shake off the rising tension crawling up my neck.
“Shit.”
I hate that he’s right.
Hate even more that I liked watching his jaw tick when Joker checked me out.
Fuck, girl, you’re only reacting like this because you haven’t had a man for the past five years.
Sucking in a breath, my nostrils flare as my gaze catches on a section I missed last night—a hidden panel sliding open to reveal rows of casual wear. Because of course the perfectionist Russian would have a secret compartment for his fucking sweatpants.
The closet is a testament to expensive taste and control issues—everything arranged by color, texture, season. Probably alphabetized, too. I run my fingers along a row of identical black suits.
“Let’s see how you like someone messing up your perfect system, Kuznetsov.”
I grab the first pair of joggers I find—charcoal cashmere because of course they are—and yank them on. They slip past my hips immediately. Great. I cinch the drawstring as tight as it’ll go, bunching the fabric until I look like I’m wearing a garbage bag. A very expensive garbage bag.
Next comes the hoodie hunt. I pick the bulkiest one I can find, dark blue with some Cyrillic text I can’t read. It smells like him—cedar and something darker, dangerous. I absolutely do not inhale deeper as I pull it over my head.
The end result in the mirror is ridiculous. I’m drowning in fabric, looking like a kid playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothes. The thought makes me snort. Leonid would hate being calledDaddy.
Unless…
No. Not going there.
I roll up the sleeves eight times before my hands appear. The pants are a lost cause, pooling around my feet like I’m standingin a fabric puddle. But at least nothing’s showing through anymore.
“Take that, you controlling bastard,” I mutter, then immediately remember the cameras he probably has everywhere. “And yes, I’m talking to you, creep.”
I flip off the nearest corner of the ceiling for good measure.
