Without thinking, I reach over for the glass of water that he slammed down beside me. Condensation is beading on the crystal surface. And there, on the rim, I can see the faint impression of his lips.
I pick it up, and turn around to find that his pupils have dilated so much that his winter-gray eyes now look black as night. His chest rises and falls, and I know that I can’t back down now.
I have to one-up him.
So, without breaking eye contact, I lift the glass to my mouth. His jaw tightens when I line up the edge so his lip prints press against mine in an indirect kiss, and take a drink.
His eyes flicker as I watch, and his lips fall open slightly. His hands curl into fists at his sides and shake for a moment before he opens them again.
I lower the glass, lick a stray drop from my bottom lip, and swallow.
But the water goes down the wrong way, and I choke, coughing. Water splashes from the glass onto the front of my blouse, turning it translucent against my chest.
And that’s when Slava smirks.
That bastard.
He won this round.
18
BELLA
END OF WEEK
The universe is playinga cruel joke on me. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense.
My sheets are tangled around my legs like they’ve been fighting me all night. Honestly, knowing how I sleep these days, they probably have. My heart’s still racing and my skin is still hot to the touch. Between my thighs, there’s a wet hungry ache so persistent that I don’t know whether to scream or cry.
It’s 3:47 AM. I know this without looking at my phone because I’ve been waking up at almost the exact same time every night this week.
Every. Single. Night.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars. But it doesn’t work. It never works. Instead, the fragments of the dream reassemble themselves like a puzzle the moment I close my eyes.
And the most fucked up part is no matter how many fucking fantasies I have about him, I always wake up right before his cock enters me.
Fuck.
I throw off the covers and sit up, my feet hitting the cool hardwood floor. The shock of it helps a little, but it’s not enough. Not by a long shot.
I stand up and walk over to the kitchen to fill a glass of water. Outside my window, New York pretends to rest, and I wish I could do the same.
I finish the glass of water, but my skin is still sensitive from the denied orgasm.
I sink into the living room sofa, letting the faux leather stick to my sweaty thighs. I debate whether I should masturbate until I come, but then I look down at the oversized t-shirt that used to be Luca’s and fresh guilt claws at my heart. It’s one of the few things I kept after clearing out his apartment.
I’m sorry,I think, pressing my palm flat against my chest where the fabric is thinnest.I’m sorry, Luca. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.
Ever since Slava bent me over his desk, it’s like some switch in my brain has been flipped that I can’t turn off. But the real problem, I think, is that Ludmilla humanized him.
Before her story, Slava Romanov was nothing more than a monster in a tailored suit. I was able to look at him and see only Luca’s absence and feel the burning need for justice that’s kept me going for five years.
And my fantasies then had a distinct theme: power, control, and dominance.
But now?
Somehow, without even trying, he’s given me a glimpse of the man underneath the monster.
