Yeah, it’s a lot.
Boy, this kind of scene is so not my open-house vibe. I’m used to charming buyers, not dodging Bratva snakes, and now I’m stuck in this car, drowning in leather andhim.
The Cullinan’s huge, the interior sleek and black, and the smell—rich leather mixed with Konstantin’s cologne, something dark and spicy—hits me like a drug. It’s curling into my brain, making my skin hum, and I swear I’m losing it.
I sneak a glance at him, driving with that calm, scary focus, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His face is stupid-handsome—sharp jaw, stubble I want to scrape my nails through, lips that look too soft for a guy who punches strangers.
A car speeds by, headlights splashing over him, and his gray-blue eyes catch the light, glinting like steel under moonlight, wild and dangerous.
Oh God.
My breath hitches, and I’m staring too long, too hard.
Think about something else, I hiss at myself inside my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Escrow forms, HOA fees, that time I sold a condo with a leaky roof—anythingbut him. But it’s useless; his cologne’s in my lungs, and my body’s a traitor, tingling like I’m some lovesick intern, not Bella Marquez, condo queen.
I clear my throat, desperate for a distraction. “So, uh, is it cool you bailed on the Summit so early?” I ask, voice wobbly like I’m pitching a client. “I mean, big event, right?”
He doesn’t look at me, just makes a right turn, the car gliding smoothly.
“Arseny and Timur are there,” he says, flat, eyes on the road, like I’m not worth a glance.
Ouch.
I nod, lips tight, and silence crashes in, heavy, awkward, the kind that makes you want to scream just to hear something.
I fidget, picking at my dress hem, and try again because, apparently, I’m a glutton.
“So… Tatiana and Filipp,” I start, hesitant. “They’re, like, your family, huh?”
He exhales sharply, like I’ve poked a bruise.
“My father had two wives,” he says, “Tatiana’s the second. Filipp’s her son.”
My jaw drops—two wives? Like, what, a soap opera? I blink at him, brain scrambling. No wonder he’s so… walled off, if his life’s that messed up. The more I learn, the more I get why he’s locked tight, and it hits me weird, a tug in my chest I don’t want to name.
Great. Now, two of his mothers don’t like me. One more, and we can start a club.
I’m about to say something—sorry, maybe—when he shifts, jaw tight, and mutters, “I shouldn’t have brought you to that stupid event in the first place.” His voice is rough, almost soft, and the car sways, just enough to nudge me closer, my shoulder brushing his arm.
My heart skips, and damn it, I’m staring again because of course I am. I try thinking of tax codes, but it’s no use—his face is right there, those eyes, that stubble, and I’m screwed.
He shifts, sleeves rolled up—when did that happen?—and I see veins roping his forearms, thick and strong, like they could pin me down without trying.
My eyes slide lower, unthinking, to his lap, where his pants pull tight, and fuck. That bulge. I remember it—hard, big, way too big—pressed against me in the dressing room earlier.
I’m soaked, pantyless, thighs squeezing as heat throbs between them. I want to climb over, rip his zipper down, and ride him till we crash. Not just taste him—own him, right here, cliffs be damned.
I imagine ripping this seatbelt off, crawling over, unzipping those pants, and… Jesus, sucking him. Right here, right now, with Big Sur’s cliffs zooming past.
My fingers twitch on my dress, bunching the fabric, and I’m half-convinced I’ve snapped. Never in my life have I done that. Blow a guy in a car?Please. I’m Bella Marquez,not a porn star. The closest I’ve come is reading Elena’s dumb article inCosmo: “10 Ways to Blow His Mind Before Dessert.” Number sixwas “highway surprise,” and I snorted coffee, thinkingwho does that?Now I’m that idiot, dying to try it, and it’s all his fault—his scent, his thighs, his everything.
He moves, and I’m caught. His eyes snap to mine, then lower, zeroing in on my stare, and a dark, filthy grin spreads like he’s reading every nasty thought in my head.
“Thinking about my cock,krasavitsa?” he rasps, voice pure sex, thick with Russian grit.
I freeze, face hot, mouth dry, and my brain’s a blank—what do I even say?
“Uh…” I stammer, voice a squeak, nervous as hell, but my hand’s already moving, landing on his thigh, warm and solid. I bite my lower lip hard and mumble, “Yes…” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s out, and my heart’s hammering, shocked at my own guts.
