Dimitri's hand doesn't just rest on my waist as we head for the exit; it grips me, his fingers digging into the silk of my dress with a territorial force that makes my breath hitch. He doesn't look back at Alexei. He doesn't have to. The air behind us is thick with the silent promise of a funeral.
"Dimitri, you're hurting me," I whisper as we hit the sidewalk. It's a lie—the pressure is firm, not painful—but I need him to snap out of whatever dark trance he's in.
He stops abruptly beside the sleek black sedan, spinning me around until my back hits the door. The valet quickly retreats, sensing the ozone-thick tension coming off the Pakhan. Dimitri looms over me, his tuxedo jacket open, his chest heaving.
"You didn't have to do that," I say, my voice trembling with a mix of adrenaline and anger. "You didn't have to defend me like I'm some helpless child."
"I didn't defend you because you're helpless, Maya," he growls, stepping so close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. "I defended you because you are mine. Every man in that room was looking at you, wondering what you taste like. Wondering if they could take a piece of what belongs to me."
"I don't belong to anyone!"
"Keep telling yourself that." He leans down, his face inches from mine, his eyes blacker than the midnight sky. "But tonight, you wear my ring. You eat my food. And you will sleep in my house. To the world, and to me, that makes you mine."
The rear door opens. "Get in," he orders. The tone is final. The control he usually wears like armor is fraying at the edges, and for the first time, I'm not just afraid of him—I'm afraid of how much I want to see what's underneath that mask.
---
The privacy screen slides up with a soft hiss, sealing us in darkness except for the glow of passing streetlights.
Dimitri doesn't move to his side of the seat. He stays close, his body angled toward me, his hand still on my thigh where he placed it the moment the door closed. The leather of the seat is cool, but his palm is a brand, searing through the thin emerald silk.
"You handled that well," he says quietly, his voice a low vibration in the small space.
"I didn't do anything."
"Exactly." His thumb strokes the bare skin just above the lace of my stocking. "You stayed calm. Didn't flinch. Didn't give Alexei the satisfaction of seeing you rattled. Most women would have crumbled under that kind of scrutiny."
"I was rattled," I admit, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "I'm still rattled."
"I know." His hand slides higher, the friction of his palm against my inner thigh sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. "I could feel your pulse racing when I touched you back there. It hasn't slowed down, Maya."
"It's adrenaline," I lie, though my body is already betraying me, my legs parting just a fraction of an inch to give him better access.
"Is it?" He leans in, his scent—that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and danger—filling my lungs. "Every man in that room wanted you. But you're wearing my ring. You left with me. And now, we're alone."
"This is just an arrangement, Dimitri," I say, trying to claw back some sense of reality as his hand reaches the sensitive heat between my legs, pressing firmly through the silk. "You don't actually own me. You bought a debt, not a person."
"Don't I?" He moves faster than I can track, his other hand coming up to cup my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "I could have let Kozlov kill you. I could have let the debt collectors tear you apart. Instead, I put you in silk. I put you in my bed. Tell me, Maya... who else is going to protect you like I do? Who else is going to touch you like this?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He crashes his mouth against mine.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's an assault. It tastes of whiskey and possessiveness, a raw claim that demands I surrender. I fight it for a second, my hands pushing against his shoulders, but then he groans into my mouth—a low, hungry sound—and my resistance shatters.
My fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss turns frantic. His tongue tangles with mine, and his hand moves higher, bunching the silk of my dress until he finds the lace of my underwear.
"Dimitri," I gasp against his lips, my head swimming. "We can't—not here—the driver—"
"The driver knows better than to look," he rasps, his teeth grazing my lower lip. He's breathing as hard as I am, his composure completely gone. He looks at me with a hunger so primal it should terrify me. "But you're right. I want you in my house. I want you on every surface until you forget your own name."
He barks a command in Russian to the intercom, and the car surges forward, the tires screeching as we pull toward the mansion.
---
We barely make it through the front door.
Dimitri's hands are on me the moment it closes—one in my hair, tilting my head back to expose the line of my throat, the other sliding up my thigh, bunching the emerald silk. His mouth is on my neck, my jaw, claiming every inch of skin he can reach with a desperation that makes my knees weak.
"Upstairs," I gasp, my hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel the heat of his skin against mine.
"No." He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, my heels catching on the small of his back. "Here."
He carries me three steps to the massive marble dining table and sets me on the edge. The cold stone against my bare thighs is a shock, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body between my legs. The chandelier above us casts long, flickering shadows across his face, making him look like the beautiful, dangerous predator he is.
"I've wanted to do this since the moment you signed that contract," he growls against my mouth, his hands moving to the zipper at the back of my dress.
The silk falls away, pooling around my waist. I'm left in the lingerie he chose for me—black lace that leaves very little to the imagination. His eyes darken as he takes me in, his gaze traveling over the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the way the lace hugs my hips.
"I knew you'd look like this," he whispers, his voice thick with a mix of reverence and ownership. He reaches out, his hands exploring my skin, his touch heavy and deliberate. He traces the lace, his fingers dipping beneath the edge, making me arch my back and cry out.
"This doesn't change anything," I whisper, even as I pull his shirt off his shoulders, needing him closer. "I still... I still don't belong to you."
Dimitri pauses, his hands resting on my hips. He looks up at me, a challenge in his eyes. "Tell me you don't want this, Maya. Tell me you want me to stop, and I'll walk away right now. I'll go back to my office and we can go back to being business partners."
I look at him—at the tattoos on his arms, the scar on his shoulder, the raw need written across his face. I can't say it. The lie won't come. My body is humming, every nerve ending screaming for him to touch me again.
"Tell me you want me," he commands, his voice dropping into that rough, Pakhan register that demands obedience. "Say it."
"I want you," I breathe, the admission finally breaking the last of my pride. "Dimitri, please. I want you."
That breaks his restraint. He leans down, his forehead resting against mine for a fleeting second, his breath hitching in a way that tells me I've finally cracked that icy exterior. Then, his hands move to the lace at my hips, his fingers hooking into the silk as his gaze drops, devouring the sight of me. He doesn't just look at me like a husband looks at a wife; he looks at me like a conqueror looks at the city he's finally brought to its knees, and as he slides the last barrier of lace down my legs, I realize with a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat that I don't just want him to claim me—I'm ready to let him.