Page 24 of Shatter Me (Beautiful Monsters #2)

24

TASH

I check my reflection one last time, smoothing down the silk of my emerald Halston dress. The vintage piece hugs my curves perfectly. My heart skips when the doorbell chimes at seven fifty-five exactly.

"Right on time," I say as I open the door to find Dmitri looking devastating in a charcoal suit.

His arctic blue eyes darken as they trail down my body. "That dress is a work of art."

"I thought you might appreciate something different." I step closer, drawn into his orbit like always.

His hands slide to my waist, pulling me against him. "I appreciate everything about you."

When his lips meet mine, the kiss is deep and consuming. Heat floods through me as his tongue teases mine. His fingers dig into my hips possessively.

I break away with a breathless laugh. "We'll never make dinner at this rate."

"Would that be such a tragedy?" His thumb traces my bottom lip.

"Yes, because I'm starving." I grab my clutch and nudge him toward the door. "Some of us worked through lunch today."

"Ah yes, terrorizing the board members again?" His eyes dance with amusement.

"Please. If anyone's the terror in that boardroom, it's you." I lock up, and we head to the elevator. "I simply present facts. You're the one who enjoys making people squirm."

"Only the incompetent ones." He guides me into the elevator with a hand on my lower back. "And you enjoy it just as much as I do."

"I admit nothing." But I can't hide my smile. This playful side of him, reserved just for me, makes my heart flutter.

The leather seat is cool against my bare legs as I slide into the Mercedes. Dmitri follows, his presence filling the confined space with that magnetic energy that always draws me in.

"Going to tell me where we're headed?" I ask as Akim pulls away from the curb.

"No." His hand lands on my thigh, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. "Trust me."

The touch sends shivers through me. I shift closer, unable to resist his pull after the tension from last night. His cologne wraps around me—sandalwood and pure masculinity.

"You're playing with fire," I whisper, but tilt my face up to his anyway.

His lips capture mine, and I melt into him with a soft moan. His fingers tighten on my thigh as his other hand tangles in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss.

Heat pools low in my belly as his tongue slides against mine. I grab his lapel, pulling him closer. The frustration from last night's interrupted moment floods back. His hand inches higher under my dress, and I gasp against his mouth.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs between kisses, nipping at my bottom lip. "About kissing you."

"Me too." My voice is breathy as his fingers trace the edge of my lace underwear. "Last night was torture."

He groans and kisses me harder, possessively. I press myself against him, craving more contact. The partition is up, but I'm beyond caring who might hear us. I can only focus on his touch, taste, and how he makes me burn.

"Maybe we should skip dinner." I trail my fingers down his chest. "Head back to my place for dessert instead."

His hand catches mine, stilling my movements. Those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine, making my breath catch.

"No." His voice is firm but gentle. "We're having dinner."

"Since when are you so traditional?" I can't help the teasing note in my voice, even as desire still courses through me.

"Since you." He brushes his thumb across my knuckles. "I'm doing this right, Natasha. A proper date. Good food. Conversation." His lips quirk. "Though I make no promises about dessert afterward."

The simple statement hits me harder than any of his touches. This isn't just about sex or power games anymore. He's actually courting me.

"You're full of surprises, Dmitri Ivanov." I settle back against the seat, letting my hand rest in his.

"Only for you." He lifts our joined hands to his lips, kissing my palm, making me shiver. "Now, behave yourself until we reach the restaurant."

I laugh. "Or what?"

"Or I'll have Akim drive us around the block until you do." But the heat in his eyes tells me he's struggling with his own control.

"Fine." I smooth my dress back down. "But this better be an amazing dinner to compensate for the torture."

His answering smile is pure sin. "Trust me, kulkolka . I never disappoint."

The Mercedes glides to a stop before a small storefront tucked between a bookshop and a flower stand. Warm light spills from windows framed by red and white checkered curtains. The sign above reads "Mama Rosa's" in faded gold letters.

"This is different for you," I say as Dmitri helps me from the car.

"Sometimes different is good." His hand settles on my lower back as he guides me to the weathered wooden door.

The scent of garlic and fresh bread envelops us as we step inside. No crystal chandeliers or white tablecloths here—just well-worn wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and walls covered in old black-and-white photos of Italy. A tiny Italian grandmother, who can't be five feet tall, bustles over.

"Dmitri! Finally, you bring a beautiful lady to try my food." She beams at me. "I'm Rosa. This one's been coming here for years, always alone with his papers."

I raise an eyebrow at Dmitri. "Years?"

"Best pasta in Boston." He actually looks a bit sheepish.

Rosa leads us to a corner table partially hidden by a wooden partition covered in ivy. The chair creaks as I sit, but it's oddly comfortable. A single candle flickers between us, casting dancing shadows across Dmitri's face.

"No menu," he says. "Rosa cooks what she feels like each day. Trust me?"

I lean back, taking in this hidden side of him. The ruthless businessman who terrorizes board rooms and runs an empire comes here to eat simple Italian food in a tiny family restaurant.

"I like this place," I say softly. "It feels real."

Something flickers in his eyes too quickly to detect before Rosa returns with a bottle of wine and warm focaccia that makes my mouth water.

"You eat, you enjoy," she declares, patting Dmitri's shoulder like he's her grandson. "I make something special for you both tonight."

The wine warms my chest as I watch Dmitri break off a piece of focaccia, his precise movements softened in this intimate setting. It's just him, relaxed and almost boyish.

"So this is where the great Dmitri Ivanov hides from the world?" I can't resist teasing him.

"Not hiding." He takes a sip of wine. "Sometimes I need somewhere that doesn't expect anything from me."

"Except to eat Rosa's cooking."

"Exactly." His eyes crinkle at the corners when he really smiles. It transforms his whole face, making him look younger.

The candlelight catches on his hands as he gestures, telling me about discovering this place years ago. I find myself distracted by those elegant fingers, remembering how they felt on my skin. Heat pools low in my belly.

"You're not listening anymore," he says, voice dropping lower.

"I am." I cross my legs under the table, my foot accidentally brushing his ankle. "You were saying something about the wine cellar..."

His eyes darken. "No, I was talking about Rosa's tiramisu. But now I'm thinking about that sound you made the other night when I kissed your neck."

I take a steadying breath. "Dmitri..."

"The way you arched against me." His thumb traces the rim of his wine glass. "How responsive you were to my touch."

"We're in public," I whisper, but I can't look away from his mouth.

"In a very private corner." His foot hooks around my ankle. "With these lovely curtains..."

Rosa's voice rings out from the kitchen, making us both jump. I have to stifle a laugh at how quickly we separate like teenagers caught making out.

"Saved by the pasta," I say, fanning my flushed face with my napkin.

"Temporarily." His predatory smile fills me with a cold dread. "We have all night, kulkolka ."

The pasta arrives steaming, perfectly al dente, and glistening with olive oil. My mouth waters at the aroma of fresh basil and garlic. I twirl the linguine around my fork, hyper-aware of Dmitri's eyes following my every movement.

"This is incredible," I say after the first bite melts on my tongue.

"I told you to trust me." His voice has a rough edge that gives me goosebumps.

I shift in my seat, remembering how he'd slept beside me last night, his body radiating heat but never touching me. Pure torture. Now, watching him eat with his usual precise movements, I can't stop thinking about those hands on my skin.

"You're staring," he murmurs, taking a slow sip of wine.

"So are you." I deliberately lick the sauce from my lip, satisfaction coursing through me when his eyes darken.

"Careful, Natasha."

"Or what?" I slide my foot up his leg under the table. "You'll make me wait longer?"

His hand captures my ankle, thumb pressing into the sensitive spot behind my bone. "I could."

"You won't." The wine and his touch make me bold. "You want me just as badly."

"Always." He releases my foot, but the heat in his gaze promises retribution. "Finish your dinner."

I take another bite, savoring the perfect balance of flavors. But even Rosa's incredible cooking can't distract me from the electricity crackling between us. Every accidental brush of hands reaching for bread, every shared glance, builds the tension higher.

My whole body thrums with anticipation. After last night's distance, I need his hands on me, his mouth, his body pressed against mine. From how his jaw clenches when our fingers brush, reaching for the wine, I know he feels it, too.

The pasta is divine, but I can barely focus on eating. I can only think about getting him alone, finally satisfying this burning need that's been building all day.