7. Nikolai
7
NIKOLAI
I watch Sofia rise from the table through narrowed eyes, still trembling from our intimate encounter. Her cheeks flush as she excuses herself with a murmured apology to our table companions. The sight of her retreat stirs something dark in me—she can’t just walk away.
I stand, ignoring Margaret Winchester’s attempt at conversation. My long strides eat up the distance between us as Sofia hurries through the ballroom doors into the hotel’s marble corridor.
She glances back, those green-gold eyes widening when she spots me. Her pace quickens, heels clicking against the polished floor. I track her movement like prey, letting her think she might escape until she turns down a secluded hallway.
Perfect.
In three swift steps, I catch her wrist and spin her to face me, backing her against the wall. My hands plant on either side of her head, caging her in.
“Leaving without saying goodbye, malishka ? That’s rude.”
Her pulse races beneath my grip as I lean closer, drinking in her scent. “Open your mouth.”
“Mr. Ivanov, I?—”
“Now.” My voice drops an octave. When those soft lips part, I slide my fingers—still coated with her essence—across her tongue. Her eyes flutter shut as she tastes herself. “Good girl.”
She jerks her head away. “This was a mistake. We need to maintain a professional relationship.”
A dark chuckle escapes me. “Professional? Is that what you call coming on Daddy’s fingers at a charity dinner?”
“Don’t call yourself that.” Her cheeks flush deeper. “And that... that shouldn’t have happened.”
I trace her jawline with my thumb. “But it did happen. I felt every tremor and heard every suppressed moan while you tried to keep quiet. Your body knows what it wants, even if you won’t admit it.”
“The painting sale?—”
“We’re well past discussing paintings.” I press closer, my thigh sliding between hers. “You can’t hide behind professionalism anymore, not when I know exactly how wet you get for me.”
She pushes against my chest. “This needs to stop.”
“What needs to stop is this pointless resistance.” I catch her chin between my fingers. “You’re mine now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”
“I’m not yours.” But her voice wavers, betraying her.
“No? Should we go back to the table? I’ll tell everyone exactly what made you squirm during dessert. How their proper little gallery owner came apart under the tablecloth.”
Her breath catches. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me, malishka .”
Her silence is all the answer I need. The fear in those green-gold eyes sends a rush of satisfaction through me. My little gallery owner, so concerned with her pristine reputation, can’t risk me exposing her true nature.
“Nothing to say?” I brush my lips against her ear. “That’s new. You’re usually so quick with those sharp comebacks.”
She’s pressed against me and unconsciously arches closer despite her protests.
“Please,” she begs.
“Please, what?” My fingers trail down her neck. “Please expose you? Please stop? Or please kiss you? Be specific, malishka .”
She swallows hard, those perfect lips trembling. The internal war plays across her face—desire versus propriety, need versus caution. Through my cameras, I’ve watched it enough this past week to recognize every micro-expression.
I don’t wait for her answer. My mouth claims hers, swallowing whatever response she might have given. She tastes like the chocolate soufflé and rebellion. Her hands fist in my jacket, whether to push me away or pull me closer, she doesn’t seem to know.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers as I pin her tighter against the wall. She responds with a desperate moan that sends all my blood south. Her resistance crumbles as she kisses me back with equal fervor, all that fire I glimpsed beneath her polished surface, finally breaking free.
My hand tangles in her hair, angling her head to take the kiss deeper. She’s mine. Every tremor, every gasp, every unconscious rock of her hips against my thigh proves it.
With a calculated shift, I move my thigh, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. Her eyes fly open when she notices my arousal, her pupils dilating with desire. Smart as she is, I know she gets it—the subtle threat of my demand.
Her mouth falls open slightly, and I use that opportunity to delve inside, tasting her again. Her hands tighten on my lapels, and she meets my thrust with a subtle grind of her hips. That small movement sends a jolt of heat through me. I want to drag her to the nearest room and bury myself inside her, claim her so thoroughly that she’ll never forget who owns that sweet body.
But we’re in a public place, and it’s too soon to push. Control is everything in this game. I break the kiss slowly, dragging my lips along her jawline to her ear. “I’d like to see you again… outside of events like this.” My thumb strokes her pulse point. “Soon.”
She searches my face, those eyes hooded with desire, and I know she’s considering it. I’ve seen that look on many women before her, but this time, it affects me. This time, my control is fraying at the edges, and I can’t—won’t—let her go.
“Okay,” she breathes out, a surrender that undoes me.
“Good.” I press a final, hard kiss to her mouth. “But tonight, I think we’ve teased each other enough, don’t you?”
She shivers, clearly imagining the possibilities. “I... yes.”
With one last caress of her jaw, I step back, giving her space to breathe. Her chest rises and falls with quick breaths as she gathers herself. That vulnerability gets under my skin—another crack in the facade of total control.
I offer her my arm, and after a slight hesitation, she takes it. We walk back into the ballroom together, her steps a little unsteady as she leans on me. It’s a small lean, but it sends a message to everyone watching. Sofia Henley is the property of Nikolai Ivanov.