Alik’s eyes find mine in the mirror. “Something on your mind?”
“No.” I straighten in my seat and tug on my seat belt. “Nothing.”
He swears in a string of mumbling Russian, shakes his head, and keeps driving.
The elevator opens directlyinto the penthouse and I want to say I’m not surprised.
Because why would a man like Slava Romanov have something as pedestrian as ahallwaybetween himself and the rest of the world?
Nonetheless, the view still manages to take my breath away.
The space is designed to overwhelm you. The hardwood floor is polished and spotless, branching away into two main hallways from the entrance. An intricate and almost impossibly large chandelier hangs from the twenty-foot ceiling. Beige leather couches take up the center of the sunken living room. They’re positioned towards the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Manhattan skyline like a living painting.
I wonder how many times has Slava sat there staring at the skyline while some nameless woman’s head bobs up and down on his dick. I wonder how many times he’s fucked them against those windows.
Jesus Christ, Bella, get it together.
Then, as if summoned by my thoughts, his voice rumbles from my left. “Ms.Creminelli.”
and I turn and immediately forget how to breathe.
Slava is standing at the entrance of the hallway with a white towel slung over his shoulder and wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging so low that I can see the two lines on his lower abdomen that lead straight towards his dick.
I swallow, and hope that he doesn’t notice.
His chest is broad and bare, and his skin glistens with sweat from whatever sadistic workout routine he must’ve been putting himself through. But my eyes are drawn to the dark tattoos and scars that cover his body.
Dark ink spreading across his chest, wrapping around his shoulders and trailing down his arms. There are stars on his shoulders, a cathedral across his chest, and skulls with knives in them ringing his right bicep. A long jagged scar runs down hisleft, and there are smaller ones criss-crossing over his chest and belly.
I’ve known that he’s Bratva. I’ve done my research on what Russian criminal tattoos look like. But nothing prepared me for the reality of seeing them onhim.
And I certainly wasn’t prepared for howgoodhe looks with them.
“You’re early.”
I tip my chin towards his chest. “This is hardly appropriate workplace attire.”
God, I hate how my voice wavers.
He takes a step closer, and I can smell his clean sweat. Heat crawls up my neck and his gaze pins me in place until I’m looking up at him again.
But I don’t back away this time.
Just because I’m in his home, doesn’t mean that I’m going to play by his rules.
He keeps going until the distance between us shrinks down to just a few impossible inches. A slow wet heat starts to pulse between us, and I have a hard time telling if it’s him or me. His eyes dart down for a moment, and I know he’s looking for that damn necklace.
Well, too bad. I have it safely tucked behind my blouse, which has been buttoned all the way up. If he wants to see it, he’ll have to strip me first.
“Then you can get started while I change into something more appropriate,” he says. “Ms. Creminelli.”
I can’t help the next words out of my mouth. “Are we back to pretending?”
The smile curves on his face again and sends my heart thudding in my chest.
“Your workstation is set up in my office.” He holds my gaze for a beat too long. “Ludmilla will show you the way.”
“Fine.”
