He slides my wallet into his pocket before stalking back toward me. Every step is fluid, predatory grace, muscles moving beneath his tailored suit like a panther in Armani. He’s built like someone who belongs on a movie screen, not in real life—allbroad shoulders and narrow hips andsweet baby Jesus,those thighs.
My tongue darts out to wet my suddenly dry lips before I can stop it.
Stop objectifying the scary mafia man, Bella. This isn’t “Magic Mike XXL.”
“Isabella Marquez,” he practically purrs my name, his voice darker than aged whiskey and twice as intoxicating. He towers over me, close enough that I can see a tiny scar above his left eyebrow. “You broke into my home, used my shower, pleasured yourself to my portrait, and lied about your occupation.” His head tilts slightly. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call the police.”
“Because it’s my birthday?” I offer weakly.
Thunder crashes outside the window, making me jump. His eyes flick to the storm before returning to me, that dangerous glint still present.
“Get dressed,malyshka. My man will meet you at the front gate in twenty minutes.” He pauses, lightning illuminating his silhouette. “Try not to get into any more… situations before then.”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes raking over me in a way that makes my skin tingle.
He’s gone before I can process what just happened, leaving me wrapped in Egyptian cotton and confusion. It isn’t until I’m gathering my clothes that I realize:
He kept my business card. My wallet.
And my green monster.
15
Konstantin
Los Angeles.
The city hums beneath me, a beast of glass and steel stretching toward the smog-heavy sky. From my penthouse office, I can see everything—downtown’s ruthless ambition, the sun-drenched hills of the elite, the ocean in the distance swallowing secrets whole.
And all of it? Mine.
Belov Global Holdings.
Officially, a multi-billion-dollar real estate empire. Luxury developments. High-end properties. Global investments. The kind of business that keeps politicians well-fed and regulators blind.
Unofficially? It’s the perfect front. Every clean deal filters money through a network of offshore accounts, covering for thelesslegitimate parts of my empire. And here, in my top-floor office, I control it all.
I should be focused on business.
Instead, I’m here. Pissed off.
And hard as a fucking rock.
My jaw ticks as I loosen my tie, the crisp fabric suddenly suffocating. The woman has burrowed under my skin,carvedher place in my mind like a goddamn brand, and I can’t shake her.
Her scent still lingers in my head—something sweet beneath the rain, clean but warm. The way her damp hair clung to her shoulders, how her thighs trembled when she came, the way she bit her lip as if she knewexactlywhat she was doing to me.
Blyad.
I slam my palm against the desk, exhaling sharply, but it does nothing to ease the tension coiled tight in my gut. I can stillhearher. The soft, desperate sounds she made. The way her breath hitched when she thought she was alone. That fucking moan when she finally let go—when shegave in.
I palm my cock through my slacks, jaw clenching at the ache of it.
I should have left the room. Should have announced my presence before she ever touched herself.
But I didn’t.
I sat there, watching her, letting her ride the high of her own pleasure—until the moment she realized she wasn’t alone. Until the moment she locked eyes with me, and I saw the exact second when shame and arousal tangled together inside her.
