38. Viviana

I stare at the flowers on the corner of my desk for ten minutes before I can't stand the sight of them anymore. Especially the card.

I can't see you soon enough. All my love.

I search every inch of the vase and bouquet without finding a name. Apparently, Mikhail's secret admirer wants to remain a secret.

Fine.

But she can remain a secret on his fucking desk.

The bouquet is heavy, so I have to carry it with two hands, but I still hold it away from my body. If I touch as little of the vase as possible, maybe the hollow ache in my gut will disappear. Maybe jealousy won't seep into my pores and destroy me from the inside out.

My hands are full, making knocking an impossibility, so I kick Mikhail's office door open.

"Delivery," I grumble. I plop the vase on the corner of his desk. It wobbles for a second before settling. "These came for you."

Mikhail doesn't even look up. He's typing away on his computer, far too busy with work to worry about trivial things like extraordinarily large bouquets of red roses. "Who are they from?"

That is the million-dollar question.

"You would know better than I would."

"Read the card," he demands.

"I've seen you read books to Dante. Contrary to popular belief, I know you're capable."

That earns me an arched brow. "I can do a lot of things that I pay you to do for me, Viviana." He circles a hand lazily in the air. "Go on. Read it."

I don't even reach for the card. I don't need to. I have the message memorized.

"‘I can't see you soon enough.All my love.'"

"Was there a name?" he inquires innocently.

Some woman just sent him all of her love and he doesn't even blink. How often does this happen to him? How many women out there would kill to be in my position?

"No name," I grit out. "Is that all?"

Mikhail finally looks away from his computer. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. His jacket is draped across the back of his chair and the cuffs of his shirt are rolled around his forearms—an HR-worthy offense on its own, if you ask me. Indecent exposure.

His eyes stroke over my face—and lower. There's heat in his gaze. I saw it this morning, too, when I woke up with his erection pressed between my thighs. I tried not to touch him as I slid out of bed to take a shower, but when I looked back, Mikhail was looking at me exactly like he is now.

"Do you like it?"

I blink, momentarily stunned at the way he's reading my mind. Then his eyes flick to the bouquet.

"Flowers are flowers," I drawl. "They'll be dead in a few days."

"We'll all be dead eventually." Mikhail stands up, pacing slowly around his desk. He circles around me, his breath hot on my neck. "That doesn't mean we can't find some enjoyment in the time we have."

"Do you need anything else?" I blurt. "I have a lot of work to do."

"Your job is to do what I ask you to do. Right now, I'm asking you to tell me what you think of these flowers." He leans back against the front of his desk, his legs stretched long so I'm caged between them.

"And I told you," I snap. "They're flowers. Roses are cliché and desperate."

"I like them."

My heart drops into my stomach and any hope that I could keep my jealousy at bay evaporates.

"Of course you do! Because the woman who sent them wants to fuck you. I'm sure you love that." I try to turn towards the door, but Mikhail grabs my wrist and pulls me closer. I yank my hand back. "You also love the flowers because they're driving me absolutely insane and you know that, too."

His legs are warm around my hips. "I do know that."

"Is that why you won't tell me who they're from? Because you think it's fun to see me jealous?"

He grips my hip, his fingers spread around the curve of my ass. "You're sexy as hell when you're jealous."

The wind in my sails dies without even one last pitiful gust. I blink at him. "What?"

Mikhail stands up and turns me around, pinning me against the desk where he was just sitting. I can feel the residual warmth of his body in the wood. More importantly, I feel the warmth of his fingers as they slide under my skirt.

"I'm not telling you who they're from because it doesn't matter." He drops to his knees and presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. "I'm not telling you because the only name I want in your head—the only name I want on your lips—is mine."

This morning, I wondered if a knee-length skirt with a full zip down the right side was too risqué for the office. As Mikhail slides the zipper from top to bottom and lets the material puddle on the floor at my feet, I have my answer.

The skirt is positively filthy.

Mikhail spreads my thighs and drags his thumb over the soaked lace of my panties.

"Mikhail," I gasp, my head lolling back without my permission. "Someone will see. The door."

He pulls away for half a second to slam the door closed. Then his stubbled face slips between my legs, parting them so he can drag his tongue over my slit.

"Fuck." I fist my hand in his hair. "Mikhail."

"Just like that," he growls, his breath hot on my skin. "Let them know you're mine."

I don't know who the them he's referring to is.

The proverbial them?

Our poor coworkers who are within earshot of his office?

The woman who sent the flowers?

Giving Mikhail exactly what he wants doesn't give me any pleasure, but the flick of his tongue over my clit? That does the trick.

"Mikhail!" I moan a little louder. As if the woman who sent the flowers can hear me.

Mikhail grips my hips and slides me to the very edge of the desk. The only thing keeping me from slipping to the floor is his very competent mouth, sucking and tasting every inch of me.

Papers flutter to the floor and a cup of pens tips over, but I don't care. I actually think it's physically impossible to care about anything at all when Mikhail's tongue is inside of me.

"Oh my God." I tug on his hair, unsure if I'm trying to pull him away or drag him closer.

It feels so good it hurts and I lose the ability to speak. Instead, I moan. I grind myself against his mouth and squeeze my thighs around his ears. I seek and seek and seek until, with one last flick of his tongue, I find.

The orgasm rips through me like a bolt of lightning. My muscles contract and hold as pleasure I didn't know was possible in under sixty seconds erupts inside of me.

When I can finally move again, I grab Mikhail by the shirt and bring him to my mouth. His lips are shiny from me, and I lick him clean.

He growls as I do, a sound so animalistic I break out in goosebumps. Then he spins me around, bends me over his desk, and drives into me in one thrust.

I arch my back, taking every inch of him.

Mikhail drags his hand down my spine before he slaps my ass. "Good girl."

"Fuck you," I hiss. But the words devolve into a moan as he slides out of me slowly, making sure I feel every inch. When he slams back into me, I can't even remember why I was upset.

"This pussy is mine," he grunts, driving me further and further across the desk. I'm practically lying on my stomach, legs wrapped around his waist. "Now, everyone will know."

I reach for the edge of the desk but I hit something cold, instead. The vase is there, condensation gathering on the glass.

He wants me to be his? Fine.

But that means he is mine.

I don't even think before I push it off the desk. It shatters on the floor, water splashing onto the wall.

"Viviana." My name tears out of his throat. I feel him twitch and pour deep inside of me.

The fact that some other woman is sending him flowers, but I'm the one he's buried inside of now is enough to send me over the edge with him.

Once I can stand without falling over, I clean up as best I can, but it's not looking good.

"I walked in here looking nice. Now, my shirt is wrinkled and my hair is a mess."

"I'll fix it." Mikhail reaches over and plucks the clip out of my hair so it falls in loose waves around my shoulders. "Your hair looks better down."

My face flushes. You'd think I'd be beyond blushing by this point, but apparently not. "That's nice, but the trouble is that my hair was up all day. But after fifteen minutes in your office, it's suddenly down? That's going to raise some eyebrows."

Mikhail leans against his desk, legs crossed at the angles. "If you don't get out of here, you're going to raise a lot more than eyebrows."

He looks down at the front of his pants and, what do you know? Another blush.

"I have work to do," I remind him.

"Tonight, then," he says, a sultry promise in his voice. "After dinner."

"Dinner with who? Just you and me?" I ask.

"Everyone. Anatoly and Raoul, too." He swallows, and I could be mistaken, but Mikhail Novikov looks nervous. "It'll be a true family dinner."

My heart leaps as if he just invited me on the world's most romantic date night.

He might as well have.

Mikhail follows me out of his office and then leaves for the rest of the afternoon. He and Anatoly have Bratva business to attend to. It's for the best—I wouldn't trust myself not to repeat what we just did several more times today.

A few of my coworkers eye my loose hair and rumpled shirt with suspicion, but no one mentions hearing any wild moans or cries of passion coming from the area of Mikhail's office, so I take that as a good sign that we got away with it.

Hopefully.

Either way, I ride my orgasmic high all the way home.

Everyone is already in the kitchen when I get there.

"You're working your wife too hard," Anatoly proclaims, throwing his arm around my shoulder as I walk into the kitchen. "Viv is the last one home."

"Mama!" Dante throws his arms around my legs, squeezing tight. "We're having pie for dinner!"

"Chicken pot pie," Mikhail corrects, coming out of the pantry.

He has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and a juice box in his free hand. His shirt is unbuttoned, displaying a sliver of his muscled chest.

My throat closes and there is only one thing I'm hungry for.

"Ah. That explains the new hairdo," Anatoly mumbles. He's looking from me to Mikhail and back again like all the details of our sordid morning at work are written in the air between us.

I wipe the lust off my face and take Dante's hand, letting him lead me to the set table.

"You sit here, Mama." He directs me to a chair next to the one he has claimed. Then he pulls out the chair on the other side of him. "Mikhail can sit here."

Anatoly pulls out a chair for Raoul. "Looks like no one assigned us seats."

"You can sit next to me next time, Uncle Nat," Dante assures him.

Anatoly winks at him. "Thanks, big man."

Anatoly told me things could be nice here if I would relax and try to enjoy it. Is this what he meant? Mikhail pouring wine while Raoul dishes out pot pies. Anatoly humming songs to see if Dante can guess them.

I catch Mikhail's gaze over the top of Dante's head and, for a second, I can see it: our future. A life.

Maybe this can work after all.

Then the doorbell rings.

I hear Stella walk to get it and then voices in the entryway.

Mikhail, Anatoly, and Raoul are on their feet several seconds before I recognize anything is wrong.

"Fuck," Anatoly mutters.

Mikhail turns to me. "Take Dante upstairs and don't?—"

But it's too late.

Iakov Novikov steps into the dining room. He's as tall and broad as I remember, though significantly grayer. He takes in our scene. His lip curls in a sneer when his eyes land on mine.

"Am I interrupting?" he rumbles.

"It's a family dinner," Anatoly says coldly. "So… yes."

"A family dinner? How sweet. If that's the case, then you're missing someone." I assume he means himself, which would be bad enough, but then Iakov gestures to someone just out of view of the door.

A tall, thin woman with jet black hair and impossibly sharp cheekbones steps into the doorway.

The woman's eyes land on me and narrow. "I'm Helen."

She says it like I—or anyone else—should know who she is, but I don't have a clue. I'm about to look to Mikhail for guidance.

Is this woman insane? Is Dante in danger?

Before I can, Iakov fills me in with a sickening grin. "Helen is Mikhail's fiancée."