Chapter 47 Rae
RAE
LAZAREV GLOBAL EXECUTIVE SERVICES
DRY CLEANING PICKUP — Rush Order
Owner: L. Lazarev
Condition: Stained. Again.
I laugh.
He’s joking, of course. I mean, he has to be joking. Even Lukas Lazarev, king of boundary violations and inappropriate workplace conduct, wouldn’t actually expect me to—in a Michelin-starred restaurant full of witnesses—
I glance over my shoulder, but he’s gone. Drifted back to his end of the table like nothing happened.
Okay. Fine. He’s testing me. Seeing if I’ll squirm, if I’ll blush.
Well, joke’s on him. I’m a lost cause, duh, but he’ll have to try harder than that.
“Everything alright?” Preston asks when we’re alone again.
“Fine!” I chirp, forcing as much brightness as possible into my voice. “Just a little inside joke. So—you were telling me about your wine cellar?”
Preston launches back into his wine cellar saga with renewed enthusiasm.
Something about a 1982 Chateau Margaux and a bidding war at Christie’s.
I nod along, making appropriate noises of interest, while my brain runs through increasingly elaborate rationalizations for why I should not excuse myself to the restroom to follow Lukas’s orders.
Because I’m not going to do it. Obviously. That would be insane.
Sixty seconds tick by. Then ninety.
I’m just starting to relax, glad that Lukas has moved on to torturing someone else, when I sense his presence behind me again.
Ocean.
Mint.
Smoke.
Danger.
His beard tickles my ear. “If you don’t do it yourself,” he whispers, “I’m going to swipe all the dishes off this table and strip them off you in front of everybody.” He sighs, like that’s not such a bad idea after all. “Your choice.”
Then he’s gone again.
Preston is still talking. At the very least, his mouth is moving. But his voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away.
I stare at my glass, noticing how the tremors in my hand are making the wine swish up and down the sides.
He wouldn’t.
… Would he?
That’s a very dumb question. I know for a fact he would.
Gulping, I let one hand fall to my side. I adjust in my seat, casual as anything, like I’m just trying to get comfortable after three hours of sitting on this unforgiving chair. That free hand gets a fistful of cloth and starts to hike my skirt up.
“—and the look in their eyes when I bought it out from right under their noses, Rae, you wouldn’t believe—”
“Mhmm,” I say. “Incredible.”
Once I’ve scrunched it up high enough, my hand ducks under the hem, just like Lukas’s did in Kir’s meeting.
My fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear.
I work the fabric down my hips with tiny, incremental movements.
A millimeter at a time. Preston gestures expansively, describing some vineyard in Napa, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m currently doing something highly inappropriate beneath this white linen tablecloth.
My face is scorching. I can feel the heat radiating off my cheeks like I’ve developed a sudden, localized fever.
The lace catches on my thighs. I shift again, crossing my ankles, and use the motion to ease the fabric past my knees.
“—and the color, God, the color—!”
“So beautiful,” I croak. “Colors. Love them.”
Down past my calves now. Almost there. The underwear pools around my ankles.
Then, at the last second, it catches on my heel. Fuck.
I reach down, pretending to adjust my shoe strap. My fingers fumble beneath the table as I try to blindly unhook lace from leather.
Preston pauses mid-sentence. “You okay? Drop something?”
“Just my shoe,” I say, voice strangled. “Buckle came loose.”
“Here, let me—”
“No!” I shout. Then, softer: “No, I’ve got it. Almost… there. All good!”
The underwear finally comes free. I ball it in my fist, a tiny scrap of black lace, still warm from my body, and sit up straight.
Preston is staring at me. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Rae? You’ve gone quite red.”
“Seasonal stuff.” I start to wave a hand toward the windows as a way of explanation, then realize that hand contains my panties, so I clamp it back down.
“The flowers.” I point with my chin at the blooming centerpiece of our table.
“Very… pollen-y.” In my head, I wonder how much longer I can keep using that excuse to get me out of terribly painful social situations.
“Er, yeah. Right.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it slide. “Anyway, as I was saying about the ‘82—”
I tune him out entirely.
My underwear is clenched in my sweaty palm. My dress suddenly feels shamefully thin and the air-conditioned breeze is finding places it has no business finding. Every nerve ending below my waist is screaming.
And somewhere at the other end of this table, Lukas Lazarev is waiting.
I don’t dare look at him. If I look at him right now, I’ll either burst into flames or climb over this table and do something that’ll get us both arrested.
So I keep my eyes fixed on Preston’s moving lips and wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
The answer arrives moments later.
Lukas rises from his chair and buttons his jacket. “If you’ll pardon me,” he says to no one in particular.
He walks the length of the table. As he passes my chair, his hand extends toward me at his side, palm up. Nothing about him says he’s even aware of my existence—except for that huge hand, waiting.
My heartbeat quadruples. Without looking, I place my underwear in Lukas’s palm.
His fingers close around mine for the briefest moment. A single squeeze, and then he releases me.
He slips the underwear into his pocket without breaking stride and disappears around the corner toward the restrooms.
I’m left sitting there, bare beneath my dress, feeling more alive than I ever have before.
For the rest of the after-dinner drinks, I feel the air on my bare skin and the leather seat cool against my thighs. When I move, I’m reminded that Lukas owns a part of me now.
At long last, somewhere after midnight, the dinner winds down.
Preston catches my elbow as the group begins to disperse.
“It was a pleasure meeting you properly, Rae.” He produces a business card and passes it to me.
“I’d love to continue our conversation sometime. Maybe over that wine I mentioned?”
He’s looking at me expectantly, no doubt waiting for me to pull out my phone, punch in his number, and seal whatever deal he thinks we’ve been negotiating all evening.
I open my mouth to respond—I’m not even sure what I’m going to say, honestly; something polite and noncommittal—when a hand lands on my lower back.
“She’s with me,” Lukas says.
He doesn’t raise his voice or puff up his chest or do any of the typical alpha-male posturing I’ve come to expect from men marking territory. He just says it. The sky is blue and water is wet and Rae Everett belongs to him.
Preston’s smile freezes. “I didn’t realize you two were actually involved.”
“Now, you do.”
His gaze flicks to me, then back to Lukas. Whatever he sees in the older man’s face makes him take a small step backward.
“Well.” He tucks his business card back into his pocket with a rueful smile. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“I can, actually,” Lukas says. “And I do.”
Preston laughs and holds up his hands in surrender. “Message received, loud and clear. Rae, it was lovely meeting you. Lukas, always a pleasure.”
He retreats toward the exit, joining the stream of departing guests.
The moment he’s gone, Lukas’s hand slides from my lower back to my hip. His grip tightens, fingers digging into the thin fabric of my dress.
“Time to go,” he says.
“Where?”
He doesn’t answer.
Outside, the grim-faced chauffeur has the car waiting. Lukas opens the door himself and helps me in, walling me off with his body so I don’t accidentally give the world a Britney Spears-esque flash of my upskirt regions.
Once I’m settled, he gets into the backseat with me. The door closes behind him with a soft thunk.
He gazes out of the window as we pull away from the curb. Light passes over his face: gold, then shadow, then gold again. His scowl is carved from the same cold granite as always.
Then his hand moves to press a button on the door.
A tinted partition rises between us and the driver, sealing us into our own private world. The sound of it locking into place dies quickly in the sudden silence.
For some reason I don’t understand, my mouth goes dry.
Lukas turns to face me. In the dim glow of passing streetlights, his eyes are almost black. Two voids that swallow everything they touch.
“On your knees,” he says. “On the floor.”
When I hesitate, his head tilts one degree.
“Ms. Everett… don’t make me ask twice.”