A little sound escapes my throat as I burrow deeper into the warmth, nuzzling my face into the pillow. A dull ache throbs behind my eyes like the worst hangover of my life, yet the rest of my body feels heavy and boneless, wrapped in something impossibly soft.
Another slow breath fills my lungs.
The scent twists low in my stomach, sending a strange heat through my chest. It pulls at a memory just out of reach—warm skin, a steady heartbeat, a large hand closing over mine and pressing it against a hard chest.
Then reality crashes down.
The dinner. The wine. The docks. The ship.
My eyes snap open.
This isn’t the guest room.
A massive bed stretches beneath me, sheets of black silk tangled around my legs. The room itself is stark and masculine—every sharp line and dark surface screaming control.
A predator’s room.
Glancing down reveals another problem.
The red dress is gone.
Instead, my body is swallowed by a black cotton T-shirt, the fabric huge against my frame. It smells unmistakably like him.
Konstantin.
Panic slices through the drugged haze. My body jerks backward, heels digging into the mattress until my spine collides with the upholstered headboard. The duvet comes with me, yanked to my chin, fingers biting into the heavy fabric.
A quick, frantic inventory follows.
Bare legs. Under the shirt, the faint lace of my panties. Nothing else.
A cold knot forms in my stomach.
Did he…?
Memory refuses to cooperate. The last clear moment is the car ride back from the docks—his hand resting on my leg, the heat of his body beside mine.
And then nothing.
Darkness.
“You slept well.”
My head snaps toward the sound.
Konstantin sits in a gray wingback chair by the window, fully dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit, white shirt, and a silk tie knotted perfectly at his throat. He looks as though he’s been awake for hours.
Like the devil on a Sunday morning.
A small espresso cup rests in his hand as he watches me over the rim, long legs crossed, completely unbothered by the fact that I’m practically hyperventilating in his bed.
"Where are my clothes?" I croak, my throat raw.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. "On the floor. Where I left them."
He gestures vaguely to a pile of red fabric near the foot of the bed.
My stomach drops. "You... you undressed me?"
