Oh, he does not like that. He steps into my space and glares down at me, eyes simmering with anger. “You have no idea what kind of party this is, do you? What kind of men will be there?”
My heart starts drumming at my throat as his anger rolls down and drowns me in its heat.
“I won’t let you show up dressed like this,” he growls. “Change. Now.”
I can almost taste my heartbeat on my tongue. “And if I don’t?”
He moves so fast I don’t have time to react.
One second I’m leaning against the doorframe, smug and in control. The next second, my back is against it, and Slava’s hand is wrapped around my throat.
“Then I’ll strip you right here.”
Then, as if to make good on his threat, his other hand slides over my waist until it starts looping at the string holding the bottoms together. Flames dance across my skin. Electricity flares up in my spine. I know he’s not bluffing. Not after yesterday.
For a moment, I consider letting him carry out his threat.
It’s not like I actuallywantto go to this party.
And if he strips me now, then maybe I’ll finally get a chance to relieve some of this aching emptiness that’s been eating away at me ever since the night of the fundraiser gala.
“What’s it going to be, Bella?” The string starts to slide loose.
With one torturously long heartbeat after another, we keep staring at each other. His gaze never leaves my face, but a muscle starts ticking in his jaw as his finger slides under my bottoms to brush the curve of my ass.
I inhale sharply, feeling a familiar wet heat between my legs, and my nipples twist against the sinfully tiny fabric of my top.
The hand in my bottoms moves until he palms my ass. Then, with a single hard tug, he yanks me to him, and I can feel his erection pulsing against my wet pussy through our clothes. His fingers inch forward, and I feel one coming dangerously close to finding me.
“Last chance,” he whispers, and I know that he means it.
But this is what I want. This is what I need.
“Don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you.”
He steps into me, and the two of us stumble inside of my apartment. Before I can protest, I feel my bottoms falling away between my legs and my back hitting the wall.
I close my eyes, panting.
Yes...
But the touch never comes.
Frustration tears at my chest, and I force my eyes open only to find him staring not at me but at the state of my living room.
The room looks like a toy store exploded. Anthony’s favorite dinosaur is perched on the couch cushion. His coloring books are spread across the coffee table. A half-built LEGO rocket ship sits on the kitchen counter, and his tiny sneakers are lined up neatly by the door because he’s very particular about where his shoes go.
Reality splashes me like a bucket of ice water.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Slava turns back to me.
“Whose child is this?” he asks, voice carrying a new edge that’s different from anything I’ve heard from him before. “Nico’s?”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest and cross my legs, suddenly very aware of how exposed I am. “Not Nico’s.”
“Then whose?—”
