Page 7

7

DMITRI

I scan the bustling museum gallery, taking in the precise placement of each Renaissance masterpiece. The press clusters near the Botticelli, their cameras flashing as the museum director gestures animatedly. Old money mingles with new, and champagne flutes catch the light from the crystal chandeliers.

“Mr. Ivanov.” The curator’s assistant hurries over, clipboard clutched to her chest. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.”

I adjust my cufflink. “The board doesn’t require invitations.”

Her face flushes as she nods and scurries away. These events bore me, but I never miss an opportunity to observe. Especially when...

There she is. Natasha commands attention in a fitted burgundy dress, her hair swept up to expose the graceful curve of her neck. She’s explaining the exhibition’s significance to a group of potential donors, her passion evident in every gesture.

“Dmitri.” My brother Nikolai appears at my elbow. “Crashing another party?”

“It’s hardly crashing when I’ve contributed more to this institution than half these people combined.”

He follows my gaze to Natasha. “Ah. Now I understand why you’re really here.”

I ignore his knowing smirk and make my way through the crowd. Several people try to engage me in conversation, but I brush them off with practiced ease. The press is already taking notice of my presence—I can see them repositioning their cameras.

I approach while Natasha finishes with her donors, catching the tail end of her pitch. Her lips curve into that familiar sharp smile when she spots me—the one that’s half challenge, half warning.

“Mr. Ivanov. Stalking me at my own event now?”

“Merely ensuring the board’s investment is well-represented.” I step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Though I must say, that dress is excellently representing other... assets.”

“How disappointing. I expected a more sophisticated line from you.” Her green eyes flash with amusement. “Your charm usually comes with more finesse.”

“Perhaps you bring out my baser instincts.” I offer her two fresh champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “Though I notice you haven’t moved away.”

She accepts the glass, her fingers brushing mine. “Maybe I enjoy watching you squirm when you can’t maintain that perfect control.”

“Is that what you think this is?” I lean in. “That I’m losing control?”

“Your tie is crooked.” She reaches up, adjusting it with deliberate slowness. “Very unlike you, Dmitri.”

My hand catches her wrist before she can pull away. “Careful, Natasha. Some might interpret that as an invitation.”

“And what would you interpret it as?” Her pulse races beneath my fingers, betraying her composed expression.

Her defiance sparks something wild in me. I lean in closer, my lips brushing her ear. “I’ve imagined you spread across my desk, that sharp tongue of yours put to much better use than these verbal sparring matches.”

Her breath catches. I notice the flush creeping up her neck.

“And when you get all righteous and indignant like this?” My fingers trail up her arm. “It makes me want to show you exactly what happens to women who challenge me.”

She pulls back, eyes wide. “Are you trying to get me to slap you again?”

The memory of her palm against my cheek sends heat through my veins. “Would you like to? Right here in front of all these people?” I trace my thumb across her lower lip. “Go ahead. Give them something to talk about besides the artwork.”

Her pulse still races under my grip, and I notice the dilation of her pupils and the way her chest rises with quicker breaths. Such telling signs. My Natasha, always trying to maintain that ice queen facade while her body betrays her every reaction.

“Your heart’s racing.” I slide my fingers from her wrist to her inner arm. “Tell me, is it fear or excitement?”

“Let go.” But she doesn’t pull away, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge.

“Make me.” I trace patterns on her skin. “We both know you don’t want me to.”

A shiver runs through her as I step closer, using my body to shield our interaction from prying eyes. The warmth of her seeps through my suit where we almost touch.

“Someone will see,” she whispers, but her head tilts back slightly, exposing more of her neck.

“Let them.” I brush my lips against her pulse point. “I want them to see who you belong to.”

Her fingers curl into my jacket. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

“No?” I drag my mouth up to her ear. “Then why are you pressing closer instead of pushing me away? Why can I feel you trembling?”

A small sound escapes her throat—halfway between protest and need. Her perfectly applied lipstick is slightly smudged, her composed expression cracking.

“I hate how you affect me,” she breathes.

“No, you hate that you can’t hide it.” I cup her face, thumb stroking her cheek. “That I can see right through every defense.”

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment before snapping open with renewed fire. But the sway toward me tells me everything I need to know.

“Excuse me, I need some air.” Natasha slips past me, her perfume trailing behind her as she heads down the west corridor.

I follow, my longer strides eating up the distance between us. She ducks into the curator’s office, thinking she’s clever. The door hasn’t even clicked shut before I push it back open.

“Running away, Natasha?”

She whirls to face me, chest heaving. “Stop following me.”

“Like you weren’t counting on exactly that.” I close the door behind me, the lock engaging with a soft click.

“You’re insufferable.” Her hands clench at her sides. “You think you can just corner me whenever you want?”

“Still, here you remain, in a private office rather than the main gallery.” I stalk closer. “If you truly wanted to avoid me, you’d have stayed where there were witnesses.”

Color floods her cheeks. “Maybe I wanted privacy to tell you to go to hell.”

“Is that what you want to tell me?” Another step. “Because your body’s saying something very different.”

“My body doesn’t dictate my choices.” But her voice wavers as I close the distance.

“No? Then why are you backing away?” I match her step for step until her thighs hit the curator’s desk. “Why can’t you look me in the eye without your eyes dilating?”

“Because you’re a controlling bastard who?—”

I cage her against the desk, hands planted on either side of her hips. “Who what? Makes you feel things you don’t want to admit?”

“I hate you.” Her fingers curl into my lapels.

"Liar."

Her eyes flash with fury. “You arrogant?—”

I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing her words. She makes a sound of protest that melts into a moan as I tangle my fingers in her hair. Her lips part, letting me taste her anger, her desire. She bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and I growl into her mouth, pressing her harder against the desk.

Her nails rake down my neck as I devour her mouth, claiming every defiant gasp. I grip her hips, lifting her onto the desk. Papers scatter. She wraps her legs around me, pulling me closer even as she bites and claws. This isn’t submission—a battle, each kiss a declaration of war.

I tear my mouth from hers to bite the sensitive spot below her ear. Her head falls back with a moan that shoots straight to my groin. “Still hate me?” I growl against her throat.

“Yes,” she pants, arching as I suck harder. “God, yes.”

The sound of voices in the hallway freezes us both. Footsteps approach, then pause outside the door.

Tash shoves me back, smoothing her dress. Her lipstick is smeared, hair falling from its elegant twist. The sight of her disheveled by my touch makes me want to lock that door and damn the consequences.

“Leave. Now.” Her brown eyes are full of steel. “This was a mistake.”

I straighten my tie, licking my lip and tasting blood where she bit me. Without another word, I slip out the side door into the empty corridor.

What the hell just happened? I never lose control like this. Never let anyone affect me. Yet here I am, hiding in a darkened hallway like some lovesick teenager, my body still humming from her touch.

I’ve broken men twice my size and orchestrated billion-dollar deals without blinking. But one sharp-tongued curator has me acting like a buck during mating season—unacceptable.

I check my reflection in a display case. My usually perfect appearance is noticeably rumpled. A red mark blooms on my neck where her nails drew blood.

This ends now. I am Dmitri Ivanov. I don’t chase women and don’t lose control over them.

So why do I still long for her taste to linger on my lips?