Page 24

After a brief internal debate, I grab a pair of pants and a shirt, deciding to save both my clean dress and underwear for later—no point wasting them when I have no idea how long we’re spending on this yacht.

The shirt swallows me whole, the fabric hanging loose over my frame. The pants are even worse. I end up hooking a tie through the belt loops to keep them up, then rolling the hems twice so I don’t trip over them. When I’m done, I glance down at myself and huff a quiet laugh.

I look ridiculous.

Still, I button the shirt, push the sleeves up, and go to find Dimitri. Strangely enough, my fear of him finding me out has faded to a steady rumble. It still rattles beneath everything else, dark and deep, but it’s held at bay by a single thought: there’s no way he’d fuck me like that if he had any real suspicions, right?

Right?

Right.

The hallway is narrow but well lit, with polished panels lining the walls and soft carpet cushioning my steps. Closed doors line both sides—more bedrooms, probably—and at the end, a staircase leads up to the main deck.

I grip the handrail as I climb since the yacht’s sway is more noticeable here. At the top, I stop. Everything has been transformed overnight. Gone are the cocktail tables and chairs from last night’s expo, replaced with plush sofas, a small dining table for two, and a vase filled with roses.

The LED panels are gone too, and without them, the enclosed helm station ahead is fully visible. Dimitri is standing inside it, staring out through the windscreen. He’s in grey slacks and a black shirt, tucked in. His back is to me, but the tension in his posture tells me he knows I’m here.

I clear my throat as I walk toward him, my heart picking up pace, my palms sweating as memories of last night flood back—his mouth, his hands, the way he wrecked me.

“Hi,” I say softly.

He glances over his shoulder at me, taking my breath away. His eyes look more green than blue this morning, or maybe it’s the black shirt bringing the color out. A pair of sunglasses is pushed up into his hair, holding back those dark waves, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a glimpse of intricate black ink.

So fucking hot.

I swallow as I try to trace the shape of the tattoo he kept covered all through last night.

“My eyes are up here.” His voice is husky but amused.

My cheeks burn. The curse of red hair—blushing like a damn warning sign. “I wasn’t⁠—”

“Sleep well?”

I nod sheepishly.

“Good.” He eyes me up and down. “You look great, by the way. My clothes suit you well.”

My blush deepens, and I tug self-consciously at the too-long sleeves of his shirt. “I thought I’d save the dress…”

“For?”

“For—uh, when I was back on land,” I stumble.

He lifts a brow. “Back on land? Why’s that? Got a date planned?”

“What? No. I⁠—”

“I’m just teasing.” He smiles—an absolutely gorgeous, heart-stealing smile—and my core clenches in response. “I’m glad you made yourself… comfortable.”

I can’t look at him anymore. He’s scrambling my brain. So, I step into the helm station with him and take a good look out instead.

“Where are we?” I ask, trying to change the subject. Through the windscreen, an endless expanse of water stretches ahead, only interrupted by dots of container ships and ferries. It’s a beautiful view. So peaceful.

“Upper Bay. We moved out here last night. I didn’t want any more interruptions.” He gives me a meaningful glance, and I quickly look away. Too late. Heat spreads all the way to the tops of my ears.

“Are we going back to the dock soon?” I ask, my heart thumping when I notice him closing the distance between us.

“Dock?” He steps in behind me, pressing his body against my back, his cock already hard and insistent. “No, Plamyashka moyo. I’m nowhere near done with you.”