Because I’m too busy trying not to fuck her again right here against the doorframe.
Her bare feet are planted, steady. Her silk gown offers a teasing a glimpse of thigh with every breath. Her hands are clenched, eyes locked on mine, mouth tight.
And all I can think is:“Jesus. That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She steps closer, and now she’sright there. Head just under my chin. Eyes on fire.
“If you think I’m going to roll over and thank you for treating me like furniture, you’ve picked the wrong girl.”
I stare down at her, letting the silence stretch until she shifts slightly, chest brushing mine.
“Are you done?” I ask.
She blinks. “No. Not even close.”
Good.
Because I’m not, either.
I move before she can blink again.
One arm hooks under her thighs, the other around her back. She gasps—too slow to stop it—as I lift her clean off the floor like she weighs nothing.
“What the—? Konstantin!”
She grabs at my shoulder, instinct more than anything, but it’s too late. I’ve already crossed the threshold.
The door slams shut behind us, the lock clicking back into place like punctuation. I don’t give her time to ask questions. Don’t give her space to push away.
“Konstantin—what the hell—?”
“Quiet.”
Just that. One word, low and final.
Her mouth parts, ready to fire back—but nothing comes out.
Her eyes stay locked on mine. Wide. Angry. But underneath it— Yeah. Lust. Thick and undeniable.
32
Bella
A while ago
The dress is dead.Murdered in the line of duty.
Red Bergdorf, slit to the thigh, perfect tailoring—may she rest in expensive, slutty peace. She’s crumpled in the corner of my bathroom now, clinging to the tiled floor like a fallen soldier. Ripped clean down the side. Probably smells like sweat, sex, and regret. Definitely not returnable.
I showered until the water ran cold. Not because I was trying to washhimoff me. (I mean, yes, I was. Obviously.) But also because the more I scrubbed, the more I remembered how fast it all happened. How fastIhappened.
Now I’m staring at myself in the mirror, wrapped in black silk that dips too low in the back and shows too much leg for someone trying to reclaim their dignity. I don’t even remember packing this thing. Did Anya put it in my closet? Or does this place just stock slinky depression wear?
I run my fingers through my hair. My reflection looks… not great. Like someone trying to pretend she’s fine. Trying really hard. But her lips are too swollen, her eyes too glassy, and that thing in her chest? Still doing somersaults. Ugh. Gross.
My phone buzzes. I nearly don’t check it, because Iknow. Iknowit’s him. I can already hear the ice in his voice.
Konstantin: Be ready by 6 a.m. tomorrow. You’re needed at the office. Meetings start at seven sharp. No delays, no excuses. Wear something that says Director, not hostage. Don’t fuck this up.
