The man from the portrait. In the flesh. Sitting in that leather chair like it's his personal throne, looking even more devastating than his painted version. More dangerous. More real.
My brain short-circuits, trying to process reality through a haze of weed and post-orgasmic bliss. The first coherent thought that manages to break through?Holy mother of fuck, his jawline could cut glass.
The second thought?I just masturbated to his portrait. While he watched.
The third?That traitorous device hasn't stopped its relentless humming.
"Interesting choice of toy," he drawls, voice thick with that Russian accent I'd been fantasizing about. His eyes, darker than sin itself, flick between my face and the still-buzzing dildo. "Green is not typically associated with... pleasure."
I try to move, to do something—anything—other than lay here like a deer caught in very sexy headlights. But in my panic, I jerk too hard. The dildo, slick from my previous activities, shoots out like a champagne cork.
And hits him square in the chest.
The buzzing continues as it rolls down his pristinely tailored suit, leaving a wet trail before landing in his lap. Still vibrating. Still very much covered in evidence of what I'd been doing.
Ground, if you're going to swallow me whole, now would be the perfect time.
He picks up the toy, examining it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for bomb disposal. The corner of his mouth twitches. "I believe this belongs to you."
"I..." Words fail me. Completely. Because what do you say when a Greek god in a three-piece suit is holding your vibrator? A vibrator that just assaulted him after you broke into his house and got off to his portrait?
His eyes rake over my naked body, and I suddenly remember I'm still spread out like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I grab for the sheets, but they're tangled around my ankles. Because of course they are.
"Looking for these?" He reaches down, gathering the sheets with one hand while still holding my vibrator in the other. The bastard's enjoying this. I can see it in the way his lips curve into a predatory smile.
"I can explain," I blurt out, even though I absolutely cannot explain any of this.
"Please do." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, still holding my green monster like it's Exhibit A in the most mortifying court case ever. "Start with why you're in my bed. Then perhaps we can discuss your... creative use of my portrait."
The way he says 'creative' makes my insides clench. Which is completely inappropriate given the situation, but try telling that to my libido.
"Would you believe I'm the cleaning lady?"
"With this?" He holds up the vibrator, which chooses that exact moment to run out of batteries and die with a sad little whir.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Because really, what else can you do when you're naked in some mysterious Russian tycoon's bed with your dead dildo in his hands? The man screams old money—everything from his custom suit to his thousand-dollar watch to the way he carries himself like he owns not just this mansion, but probably half the city. Tech billionaire? Real estate mogul? Whatever he is, he's definitely way above my pay grade.
His eyes darken. "Something funny,malyshka?"
"Just... processing the absurdity of my life choices," I manage to squeak out. "Also, I'm pretty sure I'm still high."
He stands suddenly, all six-foot-something of him unfolding like a panther rising to strike. My green monster disappears into his pocket—and isn't that a sentence I never thought I'd think—as he stalks toward the bed.
"Then allow me to help clear your head." His voice drops an octave, sending shivers down my spine. "We have much to discuss about breaking and entering. And proper portrait etiquette."
Proper portrait etiquette.Is he... is he fucking with me?
But before I can process that thought, he's there, looming over me like every dark fantasy I've ever had come to life. And ashis hand reaches out to trace my jawline, I realize something terrifying:
The portrait didn't do him justice at all. My body screams at me to move, to scramble away, to dosomething—but I'm frozen, caught in his gravitational pull like a helpless meteor about to crash and burn. And burn I do.
His fingertips leave a trail of fire along my jaw, and my brain decides this is the perfect moment to shut down completely. The mattress dips as he sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that his cologne—something expensive and sinfully masculine—makes my head spin.
"I'm waiting." The words roll off his tongue like dark honey.
Right. Words. I should use those.
I scramble to sit up, which turns into an awkward dance of trying to cover both my breasts and lady bits with not nearly enough hands. His eyes drop to my chest, and—did this man's eyebrows just quirk in amusement?
