Electric.
Like the first drop of rain before a storm.
I feel it in my teeth.
A single, almost imperceptible shift—his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, just barely, just enough for my breath to hitch.
His expression doesn’t change. Not a single flicker of amusement, of acknowledgment.
But he knows.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
And then, as if he hasn’t just fried every last working brain cell I have, he leans in—just slightly, just enough to own the space between us.
“I’m Konstantin Belov.”
And he doesn’t let go of my hand.
19
Konstantin
She’s not exactly how I remembered.
No.
She looks even more fucking radiant, like she’s stepping straight out of my goddamn fantasies just to make my cock harder. Hair falling in careless waves, lips just a little too full, and those sharp eyes daring me to react. It puts me in a worse mood instantly.
She’s poured into a dress that should be illegal in a professional setting—black, form-fitting, the kind that clings to every curve like it was stitched directly onto her body. The neckline dips just enough to tease, giving me a hint of cleavage that makes my jaw tighten. The waist is cinched, emphasizing just how fucking small it is before the fabric stretches over the perfect curves of her hips and ass.
And those heels—tall, sleek, lethal.
She’s even more fucking dangerous wrapped up like this—it makes me want to strip her down, slow and deliberate, just to see if she shivers when I do it.
I’m still holding her hand. Still focused on her.
Because she’s been living in my head for days. Tying up every loose thought, sinking her fucking claws into me without even trying. And I let her—because the truth is, I didn’t want to think about anything else.
I didn’t buy this company for a good deal. I bought it for her.
James was already halfway out the door when I made the offer. The kind of man who talked about loyalty until it wasn’t convenient anymore. He was set to board a plane to Costa Rica, leaving behind a trail of unpaid invoices, a worthless office lease, and a staff who didn’t know they were about to be abandoned. Even his fucking desk was still cluttered with overpriced whiskey tumblers and crumpled notes from deals that never materialized.
I didn’t care about saving Elite Properties. I cared about the fact that Isabella Marquez had worked herself to the bone for a man who was about to disappear without a word.
So, I made him an offer. Ten dollars. That’s all he’d get. And in return, I’d clean up his mess—buy off his debts, settle what he owed to vendors, keep the doors open long enough to make the transition clean. He didn’t even hesitate. Just signed over everything, grabbed his passport, and vanished.
Her hand is small in mine—smooth but strong. I feel the faintest shiver run through her fingers, and her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something but can’t quite force the words out. And I like it. I like knowing she’s feeling something, whether it’s wariness or anticipation.
Because I know her.
I know Isabella Marquez isn’t the type to break easily. I know she’s fought tooth and nail against her aunt and uncle, the samefamily who should have protected her but instead tried to strip her of everything. I know the weight of raising two siblings on her own, of making impossible choices just to keep them safe. I know every late bill, every sacrifice, every desperate attempt to hold on to the home that should have been hers without a fight.
And I know her deep, dark fantasy.
Because she fucked herself in my bed.
She craves to submit to me.
