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MIA

My jaw drops. “You live here?”

Yulian’s gaze flicks disinterestedly to the humongous skyscraper towering over us. “Yes.”

“This is your company,” I point out. “It says so right there.”

He follows my line of sight to the giant StarTech, Inc. neon sign. “Acute observation.”

“How can you live in your own company building?” I gesture wildly to the suits walking in and out of the revolving security doors. Behind me, a camera flashes, probably to capture the magnetic silhouette of Mr. Most-Eligible-Bachelor. “You’ve got employees here! And paparazzi at the door!”

“It’s more convenient this way. Also, paparazzi are for movie stars.” His gaze flicks to the direction the flash came from. “That’s probably just a photographer sent to cover the event.”

Right. The event we’re supposed to be at. Guilt pricks me, but not for long. I’m way too distracted for that.

“I mean, I get it, your work is your life, but this is too much,” I say. “It’s like if I hunkered down in the morgue. Gwen would chase me out of there with a broom.”

“Then it’s a good thing no one can chase me out of my own building.” He pulls out a black key card, shiny and sleek, then leans in. “And we’re definitely not going down.”

The way he says it makes me weak in all the wrong ways.

Stop thinking about it, Mia! I scold myself all the way to the elevator. It was one time. It’s over. He’s been abundantly clear on that. Where’s your goddamn self-respect?!

Probably somewhere under those sheets at the Goldenrod.

The doors close. Yulian presses a gold button at the very top, with the letter P on it. Private? Penthouse? Pad for fucking while clocked-in?

“Make yourself at home.”

The second those doors slide open, my jaw falls.

Hot.

Fucking.

Damn.

It’s like those interior decor catalogs you flip at the pricey dentist’s office. The ones you cut out and make mood boards with as a teenager, way before the financial reality of the world has set in, thinking dreamily to yourself, One day, I’ll live here.

Except that he does live here. Yulian’s life is actually that catalog.

Pick up your jaw, Mia. No floor is that clean.

And yet, as I wander around the penthouse wide-eyed, like a kid’s first trip to Coney Island, I realize I could probably eat off the furniture here.

It’s like Yulian barely lives here at all. Like nothing’s been touched since it was set into place.

And what a place it is.

Marble floors. Leather couches. Countertops so shiny I can see my reflection in them. A whole wall that’s made up entirely of glass, the city of Manhattan spread out like an ever-changing postcard.

It’s like Batman and Christian Grey somehow fell in love, got shotgun married in Vegas, and merged their assets to buy this.

Actually, scratch that: they couldn’t afford this between them.

“It’s that way.”

“Huh?”

“The bathroom.” Despite the absence of a smile, Yulian somehow manages to seem more and more amused by the second. “Unless you were planning to wash up in the kitchen sink…?”

It’s almost as big as a bathtub, so why not?

“Right!” Somehow, the thought of showering at Yulian’s place doesn’t do much to banish the horny thoughts. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go do that. In the bathroom, I mean. Definitely not in the kitchen sink.”

“I can give you a boost, if that’s your thing.”

“Ha-ha,” I snark, trying to cover up how embarrassed I’m actually feeling. Please, God, let him miss how red my face is. “Very funny.”

The bathroom is as luxurious as the rest of the place. The shower alone is bigger than my kid’s bedroom. It pisses me off in an eat-the-rich way, but it also fills me with envy.

And thoughts. Lots and lots of thoughts.

Because this shower is definitely big enough for two.

I spray myself with cold water to banish the images. Then, because I can’t resist the temptation, I test how hot it can get.

And oh. My. God.

It’s the best shower of my fucking life.

There’s a variety of soaps, all as expensive-looking as everything Yulian owns. I lather myself generously, figuring I might as well take advantage while I’m here.

When am I going to get another chance like this? In twenty-four hours, I’ll be back to my spluttering spray and lukewarm heater and Trader Joe’s two-for-one soaps.

I wonder if this is what Cinderella felt in her Fairy Godmother’s dress, spinning at that ball with the prince everybody else wanted. Granted, it’s just water pressure, but you get to appreciate these things as an adult.

Speaking of adult things…

My gaze falls to the mirror on the wall. It’s misted up, but when I swipe at it with my palm, I can see my body clear as day.

On my hips, the bruises Yulian left have completely faded.

I touch the spot they used to be, searching for that soft, pleasant ache I felt in the days after our night together. Whenever I pressed on them, I’d remember how Yulian’s fingers felt, dug so deep into my skin I knew they’d leave a mark.

In fact, they’re the first mark I’ve ever gotten that wasn’t unwanted. In all likelihood, Yulian didn’t even mean to give them to me.

Unlike my scars.

I trace my fingers along the other marks he left: a faded hickey on my neck, the memory of a bite mark on my breast. The sore ache between my legs, now melting back into need.

Stop, drop, and roll, girl.

Don’t do anything you’ll regret.

I rinse myself, turn off the shower, and climb out.

I pick up the only bathrobe and fold it over myself. It dwarfs me, way too big for my body. As I bury my face into the fabric to dry up, I catch notes of an oddly familiar scent. Pinewood, maybe, or amber.

Or…

Yulian’s cologne.

It’s his bathrobe. I’m wearing his bathrobe.

Ohmygodjustkillmenow.

I look for anything else I can swap it out for, but there’s nothing. I mean, yeah, there’s towels, but they’re way too high up. This place was clearly designed with Tall Russian Hunk as the target user, not Bite Sized Woman who still buys her sneakers in the kids’ section.

I do a little jump, but the towel slips through my fingers. “Dammit.”

I do another. And another. And another.

And then, when I’ve finally almost got it?—

“You alright in there?”

—he walks in.

And the bathrobe falls open.