Chapter 6

For three days, life returns to something like normalcy. Newspapers stop running stories about Mr. Konstantin, except for a few small pieces about his funeral, and people stop gossiping about him at work. I know I should probably take the paint supplies home, but there's something peaceful about the half-finished room I'm working in. I make a little more progress each day I go in there, and Dimitri was telling the truth. Nobody moves my paintings or messes with my stuff.

I don't even try to sneak as I leave the office and walk to the other building. I've been working diligently on the painting of Mr. Konstantin, but I'm not sure Dimitri would like it if he ever saw it.

Every time I enter this room, I remember the kiss and relive it. I can taste his lips, his passion, and his hunger. I'm suddenly inside the most vivid painting ever, all the colors adding to the heat.

As I paint, I put my headphones in, playing classical music on my phone. I'm not some music aficionado or anything like that, but classical helps me focus without distracting me. I'm unsure how much time passes, but it feels like an hour, maybe more. My belly gurgles; I need to leave soon.

Taking off my headphones, I turn and then let out a gasp. Dimitri is leaning against the wall, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a casual smirk on his face, and a glint in his icy blue eyes.

"How long have you been there?" I ask.

"Long enough to hear your stomach gurgling," he says. "Forgot lunch?"

I thought you'd forgotten about me, I almost say, but I can't let him see how much it means to me, seeing him again, being with him.

"I get carried away sometimes."

He approaches the easel, that same soft smirk on his face. It's weird thinking of Dimitri Sokolov as soft in any way. "I can see that." He studies the painting of his father, the dark shading around the eyes, the sinister flair in the twist of his lips. "What inspired you to paint him like this?"

"I don't know," I mutter.

He turns to me, an intense stare pinning me in place, shaking his head slowly. "Yes, you do," he says. "Look at this work. Look at the care you've taken. I'm no art expert, but it's brilliant, Lia."

His words shouldn't be able to send soft tingles dancing through my body, but they do anyway. I try to remember what he said last time: I'm too good for him, too pure like he's some terrible man or something. Does he already have a girlfriend, maybe?

"Thank you."

"So?" he prompts.

I sigh, then tell him the truth, though I know it could upset him. What if he freaks, and it costs me my job? "I'm not sure," I mutter. "It's not a conscious thing… I don't think through it step by step. I just follow…"

"Your muse?" he says, smirking.

"You're making fun of me."

He reaches out and takes both my hands. In my mind, a painting flairs to life of us standing like this under an altar. What the hell? I force that away but don't let go of his hands. I squeeze them tighter, feeling his strength, his warmth. After three days, it ignites something hot and urgent in me.

"I'm not," he says seriously. "I'm impressed. I've watched you walk over here every day with that determined, cute look on your face."

I turn away from him, hating the blush that rises in my cheeks. "I'm not cute."

When he touches my face, everything gets ten times warmer. There's this throbbing in my core, deep down. "You are," he says. "Even if you don't want to be."

Just like last time, I put my hand on his chest. But this time, I'm just about able to push him away before he can lean in for a kiss. It takes so much effort. My sex gets hot and demanding, just like it has every night, telling me to touch him, kiss him, be with him, let him make me his.

"You can't just show up and kiss me anytime you want," I say, but my hand is still on his chest. I can still feel the pounding of his heart and the heat of his hard muscles.

"What if I can tell you want it?" he says fiercely, wrapping his hand around mine, pushing it firmer against his chest like he doesn't want any space between us.

"Just because I want it," I tell him, "doesn't make it okay. I think with my head, Dimitri, not with… anything else."

Not with my sex. My lust. My wetness. My nipples send even more pleasure coursing through me every time they brush against my bra.

"Let's grab a bite, then," he says, dropping my hand and stepping back.

I ignore the disappointment—I still want the kiss, even if it's probably a bad idea—and then shake my head. "I'm not hungry."

He chuckles. "Are you kidding me, Lia? I was watching you paint for at least five minutes."

Self-consciously, I move my hand over my belly. "Did I make that much noise?"

"Don't do that," he says, nodding at my hand. "You don't need to be embarrassed with me."

"Those sounds are hardly attractive."

His smirks come easily for a man who recently attended his father's funeral. Maybe that's because of our special connection. "So you want me to find you attractive, do you?"

I fold my arms. "Nope."

He laughs. "That just makes you even sexier."

"What does?"

"You folding your arms like that…" He moves closer again, his whole body trembling slightly. I've never felt so wanted in my life. Sure, I've never felt wanted, full stop, but I never desired that. I never dreamed of anybody looking at me like this until I felt it, and Dimitri noticed I existed. "It highlights your perfect, curvy body."

I try not to let him see how much this compliment means to me. The fact that he not only notices my curviness but thinks it's a good thing is so hot to me. It's wild.

He reaches out and touches my hips. "We both know we're not leaving here until you kiss me."

"Do we?"

I turn my face away as he leans in. He laughs gruffly and starts kissing my cheek, smoothing one hand around to my ass as his kisses bring him closer to my lips. When I hear the moan, it takes me a moment to realize I'm the one doing it.

Each kiss is warm and sends pleasure pumping through me. I can't fight it any longer. At the last moment, I turn, initiating the kiss, throwing my arms around his shoulders and squeezing against him. He groans, pressing his hand against my ass, massaging me as we sink closer together.

The sounds he makes are so hot. The groans and the grunts and the panting breaths between each kiss, like he can't get enough of me. My core burns hotly as he slides his hand down my belly. My first thought is about my size, but then I remember what he said. So who cares if he touches my belly? I squeeze my thighs together to relieve some of the pressure.

"I can feel how hot and wet you are," he growls in my ear. "Every day, I've wanted to kiss and touch you, watching you come over here. I tried to fight it."

"Why?" I breathe heavily as his hand strokes up my tights under my skirt.

"Because you're too good for me."

"Stop saying that." My stern tone becomes a moan when he presses on my leg close to my heat.

"It's the truth," he snarls, inching closer to my pussy. My underwear feels sticky. My clit keeps brushing against the fabric, sending urgent jolts through me. "Fuck, you're so wet for me."

"Am I?" I say, trying to sound innocent.

Then I can't think. What am I doing? Why am I letting this happen? I might regret this. It could cost me my job if things go badly. When he pushes his hand down against me, I can't protest. I can't fight it.

"That's it," he says passionately, moving his hand even quicker when I shift my hips with him.

It's like I'm not even the one who does it. It's like there's this other person inside of me, sexy and confident. The pleasure lets me forget everything else.

When he tries to slip into my underwear, though, I put my hand on his wrist, stopping him. It's not because I don't want him to, but this isn't the most private place. What if one of the workmen forgot a tool and caught us?

He growls and rubs the outside of my underwear even faster, even firmer, with even more passion as though to prove a point. My hips start rocking quickly, grinding against him, chasing the pleasure, the heat. The explosion begins to threaten.

Without even meaning to, I push my face against his chest, burying my moans, breathing in his scent and his heat. His groans are so fast and fierce it's almost like he's the one about to explode. It's like he's getting hot by making me go wild with desire.

I move my hips faster, faster. Oh, hell. I want it so badly. The idea of keeping any semblance of control is just a joke. I want, need, need?—

Oh. My…

I bite down on his chest through his shirt, the orgasm making his fingertips feel like they're burning, the motion of his powerful body intensifying the release. It's like he puts all his strength into drawing the orgasm out, rubbing my pussy, wetness drenching me like my body is screaming at me to lie down, open my legs, and take him, but he doesn't know the truth. No, I won't let that thought in. I won't think about it. I can't.

Just the tingling between my legs, just my clit feeling like it's throbbing and more sensitive, just my lips tingling and my entrance fluttering like I'm getting ready for him. Finally, it passes. I'm left panting, struggling to get a good breath.

Dimitri takes a step back. He must be able to read my confused expression because he says, "If I keep going, I'll take you right here, Lia. I'll strip off your clothes and slide my dick into that hot, tight, wet hole. I'll fuck you raw. I'll come in your curvy, mouthwatering body."

I almost say, Do it then, but that would be a mistake. It would make him think I'm somebody I'm not.

"So," he says, "let's grab that bite."

The subtext is clear as he stares at me: let's get some food before he feasts on me instead.

"I'll need to get changed," I murmur. "I'm, uh… a little sticky."

"We can swing by your place first or stop somewhere and get you some new clothes. It might be easier than driving all the way out there."

All the way out thereis a good way to describe my apartment in the rundown neighborhood I can still barely afford. It's usually two bus rides across Vegas, but sometimes it can be up to three, depending on the schedule.

"I don't mind doing a little shopping," I say.

"Good. Because I'm going to spoil you."