Page 20 of Under His Control

That explains the pressure. The sudden proposal. The way he’s looking at me like I’m a filet mignon on the grill.

“So,” he says quietly, “you give me legitimacy, and I give your brother a second chance. I’ll handle the Bratva. You marry me and my legacy stays intact. You walk away with clean hands and a full bank account when it’s over. Unless, of course,” his gaze drifts over my mouth, my throat, “we decide we want something more.”

Heat curls low in my belly.

Don’t picture him naked. Don’t picture him naked.

Too late.

I swallow hard. “I–I’m not good at flirting,” I admit, cheeks blazing. “If this hinges on me appealing to your ego?—”

“It doesn’t,” he cuts in. “I’m making a business offer. Whether it becomes anything else is entirely up to us.”

He stands up straight, smooth as silk, and extends a hand. The room tilts as I’m suddenly aware of how large he is, how tiny myhand looks in his. Electricity snaps through me as he leads me around the desk to a charcoal suede couch.

Focus.

“You’d really enter into a false marriage?”

His icy blue gaze pins me. “I would; it’s what will keep my legacy intact.” He pauses, lowering his voice. “And it puts a woman I already admire at my side. I admire competence. I admire loyalty. You have both. At least, that’s what Charles tells me.”

He places his hand on my knee, and I just about jump out of my skin.

As I stare at it—large, elegant, capable of both tenderness and power—a dizzying heat floods through me. I imagine that hand sliding higher, up my thigh, under my skirt, those long fingers testing how ready I am for him. My breath stutters.

“What do you think?”

I force myself to look at him. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

Silence stretches. There’s one more question I need to ask.

“Would we—” I can’t even say the words.

“Be intimate?” he finishes for me, following his words with a chuckle then a smile. “I wouldn’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

This is insane.But the alternative is Chris being murdered by the Bratva.

I lift my glass, needing moisture for my suddenly parched throat. I take a sip, then meet his gaze again.

“And if I say no?”

His expression doesn’t change, but the air drops ten degrees. “Then I’ll find another solution,” he says quietly. “But I can’t promise your brother’s safety. And you’ll still owe the Bratva.” He considers for a moment. “As a personal favor for hearing out my proposal—and signing an NDA, of course—I’d arrange a safe ride for Chris out of town before the Bratva finds him. But from that point on, he’d be on his own.”

A chill slithers down my spine. I set the glass down carefully, gather every shard of courage I own, and square my shoulders.

“All right,” I whisper, conceding. “Explain exactly how this will work—what you expect from me, what I can expect from you.”

He smiles, slow and devastating. “That’s my girl.” The endearment sinks deep, sending a fresh wave of…something through me. “First, we draft a contract, citing clear and thorough terms. You’ll remain in your current role, and we’ll present a united front in public. As far as private matters go,” his gaze dips to my mouth, “We’ll navigate those as they come.”

“And if we decide we want more?”

His thumb strokes my knee, reminding me that his hand is on my leg. “Then more is exactly what we’ll have.”

A pulse throbs between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, but that only traps the heat. I’m wet already from his voice, his nearness. If he slides that hand a few inches higher, I’ll come completely undone.

I swallow. “So, Mr. Ovechkin?—”