Chapter 7

Laura

I SPIN on my heel.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

There he stands, silhouetted against the streetlights, looking less like a man and more like some sort of nocturnal deity that’s stepped right out of myth and into the harsh glow of reality. His gray suit seems to absorb the city’s pulse, and his shirt—impossibly white under the moon’s gaze—makes him appear all the more unreal.

Men like him don’t pursue; they sit on thrones and have the world delivered.

Unless, of course, he’s got a screw loose and figures I’m today’s special on the psycho menu.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Stalker much?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You look like you could use some help.”

I shove his damn coat against that rock-hard armor he calls a chest. “I don’t need your help.”

Jesus, what are you packing under there, steel plates?

The coat hangs between us like a flag of surrender. I’m too pissed to wave properly. He doesn’t budge, just cocks an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips, as if he’s daring me to push harder against the wall of muscle he’s masquerading as a man.

My hand’s still on his chest, feeling the drumbeat of his heart, a rhythm that seems too steady to be human.

“Would you just take the stupid thing?” My voice comes out half growl, half plea, and I hate the way it cracks.

I stare at him.

He stares back.

A jolt of heat inexplicably sears through me.

Stop it, Laura. He’s a stranger, not your next bad decision.

The night air sinks its teeth into me. A shiver racks through me, fierce and sharp, and I regret tossing the coat away like I’ve just chucked my only lifeline back into the sea.

Fuck.

Teeth gritted, I let it out blunt and cold: “I don’t need your help.”

His eyes drop to my dress, and a knowing look crosses his face. “Your dress disagrees.”

A blast of cold slaps my cheeks, and not the ones on my face. I reach back, and yep, my dress has betrayed me. Bloody hell, there it is; a rip right up to my ass, exposing my freezing cheeks and G-string.

“Give me a break,” I snap, flinging the coat back at him with a huff. My hands scramble to cover my backside from his view. Victor’s laughter rolls out, deep and smooth, not the reaction I want. It’s annoying how it doesn’t grind my gears the way it should; how, instead, it sends an odd shiver through me that’s not just from the cold.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I grumble, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Interesting,” he says, still chuckling.

My eyes do a full orbit in their sockets.

“Care to share what’s so fascinating?” I snap, one hand clutching at my skirt in a vain attempt to cover up. “Or is my backside just that entertaining to you?”

Suddenly, his smirk softens into something warm, and it throws me. Didn’t peg him for the tender-hearted type.

Get a grip, Laura!

“You,” he says,“you’re quite the firecracker, aren’t you?”

It sounds like a compliment, but from him, it feels like he’s just sizing me up for his next chess move.

Victor steps in close, too close, but I don’t back away.

My brain’s yelling “stranger danger,” but my body’s got its own ideas, leaning toward his warmth.As he covers me with his coat, I flinch, not from cold but from the sudden closeness. Surprisingly, I don’t mind the proximity.

My mind’s racing, a hamster wheel of “oh-no-he-didn’ts” and “oh-yes-he-dids.”

“Come on,” he says, voice all velvet and smoke.“Let me drive you home,” he offers. It’s oddly tender for a guy who looks like he could snap a neck without breaking a sweat.

He’s offering to take me home?

There’s a twinge in my chest.

Disappointment?

Seriously?

What was I hoping for? What? Did I want him to sweep me off to some grand adventure instead?

Those big hands of his are careful as they brush away a curl from my cheek, and I’m suddenly a statue, only I’m feeling everything.

He tugs the coat tighter, and I’m wrapped up in a cloud of his scent. It’s like walking into a wall of man—pure, undiluted Victor. It’s nothing I’ve known before, not with David, not with anyone. Suddenly, he’s not just a guy; he’s the guy, and every breath I take is laced with him.

He’s not just handsome now; he’s something out of a freaking romance novel. And then there’s his face inches from mine, lips promising all sorts of sin. His breath doesn’t reek. Not like David’s always did, that made my stomach flip—in a bad way.

Stay back,my brain warns. But who’s listening?

I’m done being the good girl who gets walked all over.

I squeeze my legs together, a pathetic defense. It’s been too damn long since… well, anything.

I look up and our eyes meet, and there’s this dance in his stormy gaze, a flicker that suggests he’s seeing more than I’m showing. His pupils dilate, and that damn tongue flicks across his lip. My brain’s screaming at me, but my body’s been lonely way too long.

I want him.

Fuck. I want him.

We’re so close I can almost taste his breath. Our lips are barely an inch apart. I’m not breathing.

Screw it.

My head tilts up instinctively, and that’s it—I kiss him.

It’s reckless, it’s insane.

But it feels like the first real thing I’ve done in ages.

Chapter 8

Laura

HE CANkiss. God, can he kiss.

It’s like he’s read the manual on my mouth, written it, and then set it on fire. Maybe it’s the whiskey’s fault, lending him talents, but as his tongue tangles with mine, I know no bourbon’s that good.

His hand’s firm on my jaw, guiding me into a kiss that’s all heat and hunger. His lips are soft, but the rest of him is all hard muscle. He’s got me in a grip that says he’s not letting go anytime soon, like I’m the oasis he’s been dying to find in his personal desert.

I feel his hand locked on my back, as if he’s afraid I’ll bolt. Maybe I should. He’s holding me like I’m the answer to questions I’m not sure I want to ask.

Despite the cold logic in my brain, my body’s melting into his. I hate that I’ve craved this—his taste, the pressure of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. I tiptoe up, fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

His growl vibrates from his chest to mine, a sound that sends pleasure spiraling down to my toes. As I let out a tiny whimper, his grip tightens, his hand slipping up to claim my neck, his thumb resting just below my ear, a silent command of possession.

Fuck, this man’s got me twisted up inside more than any pretzel I’ve ever seen. His kiss tastes like a warning—of chaos, of ruin, of raw desire so potent it should have its own name. My heart hammers, fighting for space in my chest with every labored breath I take.

And oh, my God, I want him more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. It’s maddening to admit, but I’ve been craving this since our eyes first locked.

This is fucking insane. I don’t even know him!

Wrapped up in his arms, I’m like some heroine in a midlife-crisis romance novel. And there’s a whole divorce and criminal charges waiting to happen once I track down that dick,David.

I should stop this.

But then there’s this voice in my head, loud and clear: Why the hell should you?

It’s like my body knows what it wants before I do. My hands splay on his chest as if I could actually push him away.

Spoiler alert: I can’t.

The guy’s built like a tank. I push against him with all I’ve got, trying to break the kiss, but it’s like trying to move a skyscraper with sheer will.

“What are you doing, kiska?” His voice is a low rumble. Lips linger.

“Trying to push you away,” I breathe out, but who am I kidding? My body’s not on board with this plan, not one bit.

He looks down at my hands against his chest, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Not working, is it?” His expression is all cocky confidence, a smile that screams trouble.

And then, just like that, I’m air, I’m nothing—he’s got me lifted against him, and we’re moving. I can feel the cold bite of the night against my legs as he secures the coat around me, and for a second, I’m grateful—until I see where we’re headed.

“Put me down!” I demand, my heart racing as he strides across the road toward Hotel V, a luxurious boutique hotel that looks like a room costs more than my yearly rent. It stands opposite Club V, a beacon of opulence and sin.

“Little firecracker,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair. “It’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” My voice is a husky whisper, lost in the whirlwind of his presence.

He chuckles, his eyes dark pools of desire as he looks down at me. “I changed my mind; you’re not going home tonight.”

“But you said—”

I try to argue back, but he cuts me off. “Little firecracker,” he says, and it’s like a shot to the heart.“You should’ve thought of that before playing with matches.”

My whole body goes on high alert, every nerve ending firing up. I feel a flush creep over my skin, my pulse races, and I hate how my body’s betraying me—how it’s responding to his words.

“Let me go. I’m serious,” I insist, even as my voice cracks.

“I’m serious, too. You’re mine now,” he says with a possession that should scare me but instead sends a thrill down my spine. My cheeks are on fire, and I can feel that heat spreading, coiling low in my belly.

I squirm again, desperation lending me strength, but he’s unyielding. “Victor,” I warn.

“Stop fighting,” he commands, and I freeze, his words striking me dumb. “You’ve got to learn to be a good little girl, or I’ll have to spank that tight little pussy until you cum.”

“Oh, my God!” I can’t help the exclamation that slips out. I mean, who says that?

I stay still nonetheless, my eyes wide, my heart pounding out of control. “Good girl,” he murmurs with approval, kissing my forehead.

“Victor!” I manage to say, my voice a mix of indignation and something dangerously close to desire.

“Yes, that’s it, little firecracker. Soon, you’ll be saying my name just like that, but for a whole different reason.”

In my head, a million sirens are wailing, telling me this is insane, this is not me. I’m the woman who makes lists, who plans, who certainly doesn’t get swept up by some… some dangerously magnetic guy. Yet here I am, carried like a doll by a man who’s threatening to spank me.

And the craziest part?

It makes me horny as hell.

It turns out he is Russian.

Victor sweeps through the doors of Hotel V. The doorman’s swift greeting, “Mr. Morozov,” barely registers as I’m carried like a sack of rebellious potatoes into the hotel.

Yep, he’s definitely a VIP.

The hotel’s interior hits me like a swanky, velvet-lined hammer. Plush red carpets that probably cost more than my apartment, walls that seem to have been kissed by King Midas himself, and golden sconces casting a light so sultry it feels like it’s undressing me.

He skips the front desk like it’s not even there, heading straight for the elevator. I’m in his arms, light as a rag doll, while he strides through his turf. The staff’s quick, wary glances tell me everything—this is his show.

He punches the penthouse button like it’s an old habit. Do they just give penthouse access to anyone who’s tall, dark, and scary?

Or is this like, his standard Friday night routine? Elevator rides to the penthouse with the flavor of the week?

Something else stirs in my gut—jealousy? No way, he’s practically a stranger.

Questions bubble up, but they’re on ice for now. I’m stuck to him, the heat of his body making all the looming doubts take a backseat.

But, oh God, what am I even thinking?

This isn’t just crossing the line; this is catapulting over it. And still, his warmth, his scent, it’s like a drug, and I’m embarrassingly tempted to take another hit. My body is betraying every rational thought with its traitorous longing.

“Victor,” I say again, trying to infuse some kind of reprimand into my voice, but it comes out more like a whisper, a plea. It’s ridiculous, I know. I should be fighting, arguing, demanding to be put down. Instead, I’m melting, and I hate myself a little for it.

The elevator dings, snapping me back to the present.

We’re here, wherever “here” is.

And despite every screaming neuron in my brain, I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me.