25. Chapter 25
25
Bella
T he dressing room is the size of my office, but right now, it feels about as spacious as a coffin lined with couture. I’m wedged between a rack of high-end gowns and a velvet chaise that’s probably never been sat on, clutching my phone like it’s the last connection to civilization.
Elena’s face pixelates on my screen, her dark curls piled into a messy bun, the neon lights of Tokyo casting a pink glow across her smirk.
“Miss me?” she says.
“Are you ever coming back?” I whisper-yell, eyeing the curtain like it might suddenly be yanked open by one of Konstantin’s ever-present, terrifyingly silent bodyguards.
“Aw, is wifey lonely?” She grins, sipping what looks like a fluorescent green smoothie. “Two more weeks, babe. Unless you want me to stage a prison break?”
“Yes. No. Maybe.” I press my forehead against the nearest silk-covered wall. “I just need you here to tell me I’m not losing my damn mind.”
“Oh, you absolutely are,” she says cheerfully. “But in the hottest way possible. Now, spill. Why are you whispering like you’re in a spy thriller?”
I glance at the curtain again. “Because I’m currently trapped in a private shopping suite at Bergdorf’s with a man who just bought out the entire store because I dared to frown at a dress.”
“Wait. Konstantin is shopping with you?” Her perfectly threaded eyebrows shoot up. “ The same man who, last week, you described as ‘a sentient brick wall with a Rolex’?”
“The very same.” I exhale sharply. “And before you ask—no, I don’t know what demon possessed him today, but he’s been hovering . Like personally vetoing necklines. It’s weird .”
“ Weird or hot?”
“ Terrifying.” I yank at the zipper of a gown that’s currently trying to suffocate me. “He told the stylist that slit was ‘too high’ and the décolletage was ‘distracting.’”
“Oh, my God.” Elena cackles. “He’s jealous.”
“He’s controlling ,” I correct, finally wrestling the dress off and collapsing onto the chaise in my underwear. “There’s a difference. And I just survived a five-course lunch where Konstantin ordered for me in Russian like I’m a toddler who can’t be trusted with cutlery.”
“Wait, back up.” Elena’s voice sharpens. “He took you to lunch? Like, a date lunch?”
“No, like a ‘you’re going to the Summit tonight, try not to embarrass me’ lunch,” I hiss, eyeing the seamstress lurking outside the curtain like a hawk with a tape measure. “Which, by the way, is apparently Los Angeles’ most exclusive real estate gala. Only the people who actually run this city behind the scenes. Billionaires parading their newest acquisitions, power brokers closing eight-figure deals over champagne, and, of course, men like Konstantin showcasing their most valuable… assets.” I pause meaningfully. “Wives only.”
“Uh-huh. And the fact that he’s taking you to some super-exclusive underworld gala tonight—what’s that, if not possessive?”
I groan. “It’s a power move. Wives only get invited to this thing, Elena. Wives. Not mistresses, not girlfriends. Which means he’s either trying to piss someone off or—”
“ Or he wants people to know you’re his.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Face it, babe. Your mob husband has a crush.”
“He has a contract ,” I mutter, but my traitorous pulse jumps, anyway.
Outside the curtain, a deep voice rumbles, “Bella.”
I nearly drop my phone.
Konstantin doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It’s the kind of tone that makes people move , and sure enough, the stylist scurries away like she’s just been granted a stay of execution.
Elena’s eyes widen. “Was that—?”
“Gotta go,” I hiss.
“Text me everything!” she whisper-yells as I hang up.
The curtain twitches.
I yank the robe around myself just as Konstantin steps inside.
The dressing room shrinks.
He’s in a tailored black suit, his tie loosened just enough to hint at the ink beneath, his expression unreadable as his gaze drags over me—bare legs, tangled hair, the silk robe slipping off one shoulder.
“You’ve been in here twenty minutes,” he says, like it’s an accusation.
I lift my chin. “And? You bought the store . It’s not like they’re going to kick me out.”
His jaw ticks. “We leave for the Summit in three hours.”
“Then maybe you should’ve let me pick a dress before you vetoed half of LA’s inventory.”
A beat. Then, to my horror, his mouth curves. Just slightly.
“Try the red one.”
“The— What ?”
He reaches past me, his fingers brushing the hanger of a scarlet gown I hadn’t even noticed. The fabric is liquid fire, the neckline just shy of scandalous.
My breath catches.
“You said it was too distracting,” I manage.
His thumb grazes the strap, slow, deliberate. “I changed my mind.”
And just like that, he steps closer, the space between us evaporating. His palm slides to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with surprising gentleness before tightening just enough to tilt my head back.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, but my body’s a traitor, arching into him like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.
Konstantin’s gaze is a blade, sharp and searing, cutting through the dim light of the dressing room.
“Showing you who you belong to, krasavitsa ,” he growls against my throat, his accent thick, each syllable dripping with intent. His free hand yanks the tie of my robe, the silk parting like water, leaving me bare except for my lace bra and flimsy black panties.
“You’re such an asshole,” I whisper—but it sounds like a prayer. Like if he doesn’t touch me now, I’ll shatter right here next to ten thousand dollars’ worth of couture and shame.
His eyes darken, a storm brewing as they rake over me—thighs trembling, chest heaving, the thin lace doing nothing to hide how hard my nipples are already. A muscle flexes in his jaw, and I feel it: the crack in his control, the hunger he’s barely leashing. I should be nervous, pinned here between racks of gowns and velvet, but his stare makes me feel like I could burn this whole place down and laugh in the ashes.
“Fuck, you can’t… do this to me,” I say, but my hands betray me, fumbling for his belt, craving the weight of him.
“All rules are my rules,” he snarls, snatching my wrist and pinning it to the wall above my head, the movement so swift it steals my breath. “Rule number one: you are my wife,” he says, voice low and lethal, each word a chain wrapping around me. “Every inch of you—mine. Tonight, they’ll see you on my arm, but only I’ll know what’s underneath.” His eyes bore into mine, unyielding, daring me to argue. “Rule number two: you don’t touch without my say so. Not me, not yourself, not a fucking thing unless I allow it. And rule number three—” He leans closer, lips brushing my ear, his breath hot and deliberate. “You beg for me, krasavitsa, because I decide when you break.”
I open my mouth, defiance flickering, but before I can spit out a retort, his mouth claims mine, not a kiss but a fucking invasion, his tongue plunging deep, swallowing my moan as his free hand roams. He skims the edge of my bra, then shoves the lace down, freeing my breasts. My nipples tighten in the cool air, and he doesn’t hesitate—his thumb grazes one, slow and deliberate, circling the stiff peak until I’m squirming. Then he flicks it, sharp and precise, sending a bolt of heat straight to my core.
“Konstantin,” I gasp, my head tipping back, but he’s relentless, switching to the other nipple, pinching just hard enough to make me bite my lip to keep from crying out. His fingers dance across my skin, teasing, tormenting, each flick and roll making my thighs clench, my panties soaked through.
“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips brushing my jaw, his voice pure sin. He pulls back just enough to watch my face, to see the way I unravel as his hand slides lower, past my waist, my hip, until it hovers over the damp lace between my legs. “Look at you. So fucking wet for me already.”
I try to grind against him, desperate for more, my hips chasing the heat of his body, but he’s a fucking wall, unyielding.
“Such a bad girl,” he hisses, his voice a low, filthy rasp that curls around my nerves like smoke, making me drip down my thighs. “So needy, so ready to come for me right here, aren’t you? You think you can steal what I haven’t given?”
“Fuck,” I moan.
His lips brush my ear, each word a slow burn. “I could keep you like this all night, krasavitsa —wet, trembling, begging for my cock while I make you ache. You’d come just from my voice, wouldn’t you? Just from me telling you how I’m gonna ruin you later, how I’ll fuck you so deep you’ll feel me for days.”
Jesus.
His dirty words hit like a freight train, my core pulsing, my breath hitching as I teeter on the edge of release without a single touch to push me over.
I don’t even know who I am right now—just a body, a heartbeat, a pulse pounding for him.
He holds me still, his grip on my wrist tightening. His fingers trace the outline of my panties, then slip beneath, grazing my clit with the lightest touch. He doesn’t push inside—doesn’t need to. He circles, slow and torturous, spreading my slickness, making me throb with every pass. My pussy clenches around nothing, aching, begging, but he keeps me teetering on the edge, his touch too precise, too controlled.
“Fuck, please,” I whimper, my free hand clawing at his trousers, finding him—God, he’s massive, his cock so hard it’s practically punching through the fabric, stabbing into my thigh as I press closer. I cup him, squeezing, and he lets out a low, guttural sound that makes my insides twist.
“Greedy little thing,” he says, almost amused, but his eyes are blazing, feral. “You want this?” He rocks his hips just once, letting me feel every inch of him through the cloth, thick and hard, before pulling back. “Not yet.”
Before I can protest, his fingers hook into my panties and rip. The lace shreds, the sound raw and filthy, leaving me bare, my skin prickling under his gaze. He holds the ruined scrap in his fist, then tucks it into his pocket like a trophy.
“No panties tonight,” he says, voice dark as midnight. “I want you bare under that dress, krasavitsa . I want you walking into that Summit knowing you’re dripping for me, knowing I could have you any second I choose.”
He circles my clit one last time, agonizingly slow, and I’m shaking, my thighs slick, my body screaming for release he won’t give. Then he steps back, leaving me panting, pinned against the wall by the ghost of his touch. My breasts are still exposed, nipples throbbing from his teasing, my core pulsing with need.
“Get dressed,” he says, voice cold now, all business, like he didn’t just set my blood on fire. He nods at the scarlet gown, its fabric gleaming like a challenge. “The red one. Don’t make me wait.”
I open my mouth—to beg, to curse him—but he’s already turning, adjusting his cufflinks like he’s untouched, unshaken.
“You’ll get what you need,” he adds, glancing back, a smirk curling his lips. “When I say you’re ready.”
The curtain drops behind him, and I’m left clutching the wall, my chest heaving, my body an electrical wire sparking with want. The red gown mocks me from its hanger, daring me to step into his world, bare and aching. And fuck, I know I’m already too far gone to say no.