My arms fold tight across my chest as if that’ll protect me from whatever this is.
It doesn’t.
It definitely fucking doesn’t.
Konstantin leans back.
The chair creaks under his sheer arrogance.
And through the stupidly perfect cut of his suit, I can see everything.
Thick forearms. Broad chest. Shoulders that could ruin lives.
And that neckline—Jesus.
His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be a crime, the column of his throat strong, his jaw razor-sharp.
I am not looking at his hands.
I am not looking at his thighs.
I am absolutely not looking at anything that could potentially confirm that this man is built like he was sculpted by sin itself.
So, naturally, I start babbling.
“Look, Konstantin—” I stop. Swallow. Blink. Correct myself. “I mean, Mr. Belov.”
His head tilts slowly, like he’s dissecting me for weaknesses.
It makes me feel like a fucking idiot.
Why the hell am I acting like I just got called to the principal’s office?
I should shut up.
I should absolutely shut the fuck up.
But my mouth is still moving, my hands gesturing vaguely, like I can somehow mime my way out of the absolute catastrophe that was the other night.
“So—I just want to say I’m so sorry about the other night,” I start, waving my hands around like I’m physically swatting away my shame. “I mean, I wasn’t even supposed to be there. It was a complete accident, really—like, one of those weird, unfortunate mix-ups, you know?”
He’s not listening.
Oh, he hears me.
But he’s not listening.
His eyes do that thing—that slow, lazy, predatory scan that makes me feel exposed, like my clothes are a minor inconvenience, and he’s already remembering exactly what I looked like spread out on his sheets.
I feel the weight of it.
My skin goes hot, my pulse pounds in my throat, and suddenly, I am acutely aware of the space between us.
I’m still talking.
Why am I still talking?
My voice fades out as he moves.
