Page 10 of Sin in My Inbox (Sexting Spark #1)
Dmitri
The car cruised through the night, smooth and quiet, and I was kicked back in the rear seat, my eyes drifting to Ella, tucked into the corner.
Her sleek dress had slipped up just a bit, flashing a smooth, creamy stretch of leg that caught the soft glow of the car's dim lights.
Those amber eyes of hers were locked on Nick's broad back, full of raw confusion and caution, like she was trying to crack a code she didn't even know existed.
She didn't seem to have a damn clue who I was—or what the name Dmitri Belov carried.
That was weird.
Every chick Thomas ever tossed my way knew exactly who they were dealing with.
Some played coy, putting on a half-assed act of innocence, but their eyes always betrayed them—scheming, hungry, the usual.
Ella, though? Her bewilderment, her wariness—it was too real.
Those clear amber eyes held nothing but questions, a touch of panic, and a curious glance at Nick's back, not a hint of bullshit.
She was trying to play it cool, taking these deep, shaky breaths, but her back stayed stiff as a board. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of that pricey dress, nearly wrinkling it. That mix of forced calm and total overwhelm? Fuck, it was cute, and it was getting under my skin.
She deserved something nice for that.
The car pulled up to this towering, flashy mall.
The doorman scrambled to yank open the heavy door.
I stepped out first, circling to the back as Ella hesitated, half out of her seat.
Before she could think too hard, I leaned in, one arm scooping under her knees, the other steadying her back, and lifted her right out.
She let out a quick yelp, her body going rigid, hands instinctively pushing at my chest.
"Dmitri!" she hissed, all flustered and pissed. "Put me down! I can walk!"
"Yeah?" I leaned in, my nose almost brushing her forehead, catching the faint, sweet scent of her hair. "You planning to stroll in there barefoot, princess?"
She froze, those amber eyes glaring up at me like a feisty little kitten, all spark and no comeback.
Too damn cute.
Ignoring her protests, I carried her straight through the revolving doors.
The marble floor gleamed, reflecting our tangled shadows.
She felt small in my arms, light as hell.
The mall's crisp air hit us, mixed with the smell of fancy perfume and leather.
Ella turned her face, tucking it into my shoulder to dodge the nosy stares, but she kept squirming, trying to break free.
"Hey, sweetheart, ease up," I murmured, voice low, right by her ear. "Keep wiggling like that, and I'm gonna have a situation in my pants in front of everybody."
Her ears went bright red, and she shot me a look that had me biting back a laugh, my chest shaking with it.
The manager hustled over, all smiles. "Mr. Belov! Welcome! How can we help you today?" His eyes flicked between me and Ella, quick and subtle.
I didn't put her down. "Get her dolled up for the gala tonight."
"Of course, sir! We've got this!" He turned to Ella with that fake retail enthusiasm. "Right this way, miss. We'll make you shine! "
Ella squirmed harder, her face flashing with defiance. "Hold on, Dmitri, I don't need all this!" She craned her neck to look at me, eyes full of real panic and stubbornness. "Put me down!"
The manager stepped forward with a little bow, gesturing for her to follow. "This way, miss."
Two perfectly done-up salesgirls swooped in, their smiles on point, and I finally set Ella down.
Her feet hit the ground, but she was still stiff, wobbly from being held so close.
The girls flanked her, gently but firmly steering her toward the racks of designer gear like it was a damn mission.
Her small frame stayed rigid, back straight like she was headed to a firing squad, not a makeover.
They plopped her in front of a vanity, makeup brushes and combs flying, and she shot me a death glare as one of the ladies turned her head to slap on some eyeshadow.
I smirked, then headed up to the second-floor balcony, where I could take in the whole ritzy scene below.
Leaning against the cool metal railing, I lit a cigarette, the sharp sting of smoke hitting my lungs as I soaked in a rare moment of calm.
My phone buzzed, and I saw Thomas's name on the screen. I answered with a scowl, keeping my tone flat. "Talk."
"Where you at, man?" Thomas's voice had that usual cocky vibe. "I just got to the office, and you're nowhere. Northside accounts are waiting for your signature."
"Mall," I said curtly, my eyes still glued to the dressing room door.
"Mall?" His voice shot up, dripping with shock. "You? At a fucking mall? Wait a sec, you're with that Ella chick, aren't you?"
I wasn't in the mood to explain, my thumb hovering over the end call button, but he cut in fast. "Hold up! Got something big. We've got a lead on that missing shipment."
My brow ticked up, ash from my cigarette falling silently to the floor. That stash of high-value weapons got jacked clean during a dock handoff a few days ago. A straight-up middle finger to us.
Thomas's voice dropped low. "The cargo's in our territory—right at the edge of our network. Whoever pulled this knows our setup like the back of their hand."
Western Russia, my turf? A cold chill snaked up my spine. This was no accident. Someone had the balls to move that shit right into my backyard—either a rat in our crew or some cocky bastard who knew way too much. Vladimir, that old fox? Or some other player lurking in the shadows?
"Keep digging," I said, my voice low and icy. "Use every backchannel we've got. Lock down the west side markets, track any shady cash or faces. I want this fucker dragged out, no matter what."
Then I froze. Ella stepped out, her eyes cutting through the crowd to find me.
Her dark brown hair was styled soft and loose, curls spilling over her shoulders, framing her delicate face.
Those amber eyes, glowing under the lights, held a mix of trust and searching, like she was making sure I was still there.
Was she checking for me?
Our eyes locked, the cold edge in mine not fully gone, but my lips curved into a reassuring smirk. Thomas was still yapping about Vladimir hitting L.A.
"Stick to the plan. Anything off, hit me up." I hung up, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray. Ella was watching me, looking like a goddamn knockout—polished, stunning, like a jewel carved just right. Her amber eyes were nervous, unsure, like she was waiting for me to pass judgment.
I strolled over to a low-key display case and grabbed a pair of silver satin heels, sleek and open-toed, perfect for showing off her feet.
"Sit," I said, calm but firm, no room for debate.
She hesitated for a beat before sinking onto the velvet bench. I dropped to one knee, wrapping my hand around her slim ankle. Her skin was cool, soft, her pulse jumping under my touch like a startled bird. I slipped the shoe on, a perfect fit, and looked up at her.
Her cheeks were flushed, her amber eyes shimmering with shock, embarrassment, and something else—something that hit me right in the chest.
"Looks good," she said softly, her blush deepening as she met my gaze.
"Yeah," I said, standing and turning to the manager. "This is it. Ring it up. "
The manager handed me the bill, a number that'd make most people's eyes pop. I felt a light tug on my sleeve, hesitant but firm. Looking down, I saw Ella's slender fingers clutching the edge of my suit, her knuckles white from the grip.
"No, this is too much," she said, looking up at me, her eyes wide with worry and something like guilt.
I stared down at her hand, those fingers holding onto me like I was her anchor, and damn it, something about that simple move had me fucking hooked.
I slipped my hand over hers and smoothly laced our fingers together, locking them tight.
Her breath hitched, and she froze, her fingertips curling ever so slightly.
I could feel the faint dampness of her palm, the subtle tremble running through her.
Bringing her hand to my lips, I pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles. "You deserve the best," I murmured.
Her face went crimson, lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn't. Her quick, uneven breaths gave away how flustered she was. I turned back to the manager, all traces of that private moment with her gone from my voice, replaced by a flat, no-nonsense tone. "Check."
The manager, acting like he hadn't seen a damn thing, bowed his head. "Yes, sir."
By the time we rolled up to the banquet, the so-called charity gala was winding down.
Waiters were weaving through the crowd, clearing plates, while the air was thick with the heavy mix of gourmet food, champagne, and way too many expensive perfumes—damn near suffocating.
The second we stepped into the grand hall, every eye in the place locked onto us like we were under a spotlight.
I know I'm decently popular with the ladies, but the endless stream of women coming up to "greet" me was getting on my last nerve. Ella's grip on my arm tightened, her body stiff as a board. She glanced at the crowd—those masked, fake-smiling women—then flicked her eyes back to me.
Then, out of nowhere, she yanked my arm closer, staking her claim like she owned the place. "Sorry, ladies," she said, voice sharp but sweet, "Mr. Belov's all mine tonight." She punctuated it with a quick, almost bratty scan of the crowd.
That bold, damn-near childish move hit like a brick in a pond. The chatter around us died for a split second. Those fake smiles froze, and you could see the shock, disbelief, and straight-up offense in their eyes.