"Still watching, solnyshko?"
"Hard not to," I manage. My voice sounds wrecked. "You're blocking the stage."
His laugh is low. "That mouth."
He reaches for his shirt buttons. One by one, the white fabric parts, revealing a chest that makes my brain short-circuit.
Broad. So impossibly broad, with planes of muscle that shift and flex with each movement. A dusting of dark hair trails down his sternum, disappearing beneath his boxers. His skin is tan, stretched tight over a body that's clearly been forged through violence and discipline.
But it's the scars that steal my breath.
A raised line curves under his left pectoral. Another slashes across his ribs, newer, still pink at the edges. A circular mark near his hip that looks suspiciously like a healed bullet wound.
He's a map of survival. A history written in damaged tissue.
The shirt drops to the stage floor.
His shoulders could block out the sun. His arms are roped with muscle, veins prominent along his forearms. Those scarred knuckles flex at his sides. The same knuckles that just gripped my thighs while he devoured me.
I've seen attractive men before. I grew up surrounded by them, all Italian dark-haired charm and perfect bodies. But Dmitri Baganov isn't attractive.
He's devastating.
Built like a weapon someone forgot to put away. Dangerous even standing still.
"You're staring," he says, stepping closer.
"You told me to watch."
"I did." He stops between my spread thighs. "Do you like what you see?"
Yes. God, yes. You're the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on.
"You'll do," I say instead.
His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up. His thumb traces my lower lip, still swollen from biting back screams.
"Liar," he murmurs. His finger trails down my throat, pressing lightly against the hammering beat. "Your body doesn't lie to me, Vittoria."
I swallow hard. "My body is currently tied to a chair in an empty theater. It's had a confusing evening."
"Has it?" He leans down, his mouth brushing my ear. "Or does it finally know exactly what it wants?"
"Dmitri."
"Yes, solnyshko?"
"Untie me."
"No."
"No?" I repeat.
Dmitri's thumb traces my jaw, tilting my face up. Those eyes burn into mine. "You're not touching me yet. Not with your hands."
It takes exactly two seconds for his meaning to click.
Oh.
