Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
M IKHAIL
The house is too quiet, and it’s getting on my nerves.
I’ve spent the last three hours in a room with Artyom listening to him drone on about shipping lanes and the Council's latest complaints. My head is full of numbers, and my body is still tight from the morning. All I can think about is the way Irina looked in those leggings, the way her hair was damp against her neck, and the fact that she’s currently a walking secret in my house.
I walk through the foyer, my steps loud on the marble. I don’t see her.
"Where is she?" I ask a maid who’s trying to disappear into the dining room. She jumps like I’ve pulled a gun on her.
"The west wing, sir. The spa. She’s in the sauna."
I don’t wait for her to finish. I turn and head that way, my steps heavy and fast. My blood is already up. I can still feel the ghost of her pulse under my thumb from this morning. It’s an itch I can’t scratch.
I reach the entrance to the private spa suite. Maria and Lisha are standing by the heavy oak doors, looking like two nervous birds. They see me coming and immediately straighten up, but they don’t move.
"Sir," Maria says, her voice small. "The Madam... she requested to be left alone. She was very clear about no interruptions."
"I don't care," I say. I don't slow down.
Lisha steps half an inch in front of the handle. "She said she’s meditating, Mr. Morozov. She specifically mentioned you. She said if you?—"
I stop. I don’t touch them, but I step into their space until they have to crane their necks to look at me. I don't have to say a word. I just look at them until the air in the hallway feels like it’s about to snap.
"Move," I say. It’s not a shout. It’s a fact.
Maria pulls Lisha back by the arm. They both look at the floor, their faces pale. I don’t look back at them. I grab the handle and push the door open.
The heat hits me first. It’s thick, smelling of eucalyptus and charcoal, and it’s heavy enough to make my lungs feel like they’re shrinking. The room is dim.
Irina is sitting on the top bench. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted back against the cedar wall. She’s wrapped in a white towel that covers her from her chest to mid-thigh. Sweat is slicking her collarbone, glinting in the low light.
She doesn’t open her eyes, but I see her fingers twitch. They dig into the wood of the bench.
"I told them no one was to come in here, Mikhail," she says. Her voice is a low, rough rasp. "Not even you."
"They work for me. Their job is to listen to me, not you."
I toss my suit jacket onto a stool. I start on the buttons of my shirt, my eyes locked on her. I’m tired of the clothes. I’m tired of the games. I’m just tired.
"You're tracking cold air into the room," she snaps, finally opening her eyes. She looks at me, and I see her breath hitch as she realizes I’m already halfway out of my shirt.
“You’ll have to deal with that, dorogaya ." I peel the shirt off and drop it. The heat is already making my skin damp. I see her gaze slide down my chest, tracking the old scars and the tattoos on my arms.
"I spent an hour wondering if you’d found a way to climb out of a vent," I say, reaching for my belt. "Since the windows are bolted."
"I'm right here," she says, her voice a bit thinner now. She looks at the wall, but I can see her throat move as she swallows. "I'm contained. You checked. Now go away."
"I don't think so." I pull the belt through the loops. The sound of the leather is loud in the small room. I slide my zipper down.
I see her catch her bottom lip between her teeth.
She’s trying to look bored, but her chest is moving too fast. I kick off my shoes and push my trousers down.
I stand there completely naked, my body reacting to her presence in a way that’s impossible to hide.
I’m rock-hard, and I want her to see it.
I want her to know exactly what she’s doing to me.
I climb onto the bench and sit right next to her. Close enough that the heat from our skin is blurring together. Her smell is driving me crazy.
"Y-You're crowding me," she whispers. She tries to shift away, but the wall is right there.
"It’s my house. I’ll sit where I want." I look at the pulse jumping in her neck. It’s frantic. "You 're shaking. Why?"
"I’m not shaking," she lies. Her chin goes up.
"Yes, you are." I reach out and run a finger along the curve of her shoulder.
Her skin is scorching and slick with sweat.
I feel a jolt of pure lust go through me, sharp enough to make my hands ache.
"You were real brave this morning when there were ten feet between us.
But here? In the dark? You look like you're waiting for me to do something. "
"I'm not waiting for anything from you," she breathes. Her chest is heaving now.
"Liar." I slide my hand down to the small of her back.
I feel her whole body jump, but she doesn't pull away. She leans into the touch, even if she hates herself for it. "You’re sitting here reacting to me like you’ve been starving for my touch for six months.
You can act like you hate me all you want, but your body is telling a different story. "
"In your dreams, Mikhail."
"I don't need to dream it. I can feel it. Your heart is pounding." I lean in until my mouth is an inch from her mouth. I can taste the heat coming off her. "You think you’re so brave. You think you can provoke me and then sit here wrapped in a towel like it’s going to protect you. But we both know you’re dying to let it fall. You’re just too scared to admit it. "
"I am not afraid of you," she says. Her voice is trembling.
"Prove it." I move my hand to the knot of the towel at her chest. My thumb brushes the top of her breast. "Take it off, Irina. Show me you have the nerve to be as bare as I am. Or keep it on and remain the little doll your father wanted you to be."
She glares at me. The defiance is there, sharp and angry. "You think a piece of cotton is what’s keeping me from you? You think I’m that fragile?"
"I think you're terrified of what happens when there’s nothing left to hide behind," I murmur.
She doesn't hesitate. She reaches up, grabs the knot, and pulls. The towel hits the cedar floor with a soft thud.
I can't breathe for a second.
She’s perfect. Her skin is flushed pink, her breasts rising and falling with every frantic breath. I see the silver scar—the one she lied about—and it makes my blood boil. I want to know who touched her. I want to know everything.
"Happy now?" she asks. Her voice is wrecked. Her eyes are wide and dark.
"I'm getting there," I rumble.
I push my hand between her thighs and force them apart, watching with dark hungry eyes as she lets out a sharp gasp. I look down and see the wetness between her legs. She’s soaked. The slick proof of how much she wants me is right there, and it makes my head spin.
"You're so wet for me, aren't you?" I whisper.
I slide my hand down her stomach, my fingers hovering just above her center.
"I can feel the heat coming off you. I can hear the way your breath hitches every time I move.
You want me to stop talking. You want me to sink my fingers into you and show you exactly who owns this skin. "
"Mikhail..." she whimpers. Her head falls back, her hands grabbing my shoulders. Her nails dig into my skin, and I love the sting of it.
"What is it, Irina?" I ask, my voice dropping to a rough growl. I can feel the pulse of her, the way she’s ready to snap. "You need me to ease your ache? I told you on our wedding night, Irina. I told you that sooner or later, you would beg me for what I can give you."
"I'm not... begging," she gasps, but she’s arching her hips toward my hand, seeking the contact.
God! I want her so much, I don’t understand what the fuck it is I’m doing right now, pushing and taunting.
"You're close," I murmur. I brush my thumb against the very top of her, just enough to make her jump and let out a small cry. "So close. I can see it in your eyes. You’re losing it. One touch, Irina. One touch and you’ll fall apart in my hands.
Is that what you want? Do you want me to break you right here? "
"Yes," she breathes. It’s a broken, honest sound. "Yes, Mikhail. Please."
I lean in, my mouth hovering over hers. I can smell the sweat and the eucalyptus. My fingers finally graze the slick, swollen heat between her legs. She lets out a shattered moan, her whole body vibrating against mine. She’s right on the edge, ready to explode.
And then I stop.
I pull my hand away.
My body is screaming at me, every nerve ending on fire, but the memory of the morning—of her running, of the secrets I know she’s keeping—stops me. I need to win this. I need her to know that I’m the one in control of this.
I lean back, watching the confusion and the raw frustration wash over her face. Her eyes snap open, wide and wild.
"What... what are you doing?" she asks. Her voice is high and thin.
"I reminded you of a promise, Irina." I keep my voice steady, even though my heart is trying to kick its way out of my chest. "I told you that you would beg. And you just did. But I don't remember saying I would give you what you asked for."
"You... you bastard!" she shouts. Her face turns a deep, angry red.
"I’m a Morozov," I say, standing up. I move with a slow grace that I know makes her want to kill me.
"And I don't take half-measures. You wanted space? You wanted choices? Well, here’s a choice. You can sit here in the heat and think about exactly how much power I have over your body. Or you can leave and I’ll see you later at dinner. "
"I fucking hate you," she hisses. Her hands are shaking as she reaches for the towel on the floor.
"Hate is just love with a different coat on," I taunt her again with that sentence. I look down at her, letting her see that I’m still hard, still wanting her.
"You’re not indifferent to me, Irina. And tonight, while you're sitting across from me, you're going to be thinking about how close you came to shattering. "
She doesn't answer. She wraps the towel around herself so hard it looks painful. She stalks toward the door, her knees looking like they might give out at any second.
"This changes nothing!" she yells over her shoulder. Then she slams the door.
I stay in the sauna. The silence comes back, and it’s heavy. I let out a long, ragged breath. My heart is pounding, and the ache in my groin is almost unbearable.
I look at the spot where she was sitting. The wood is damp from her skin. I won. I made her shake hard, made her beg.
But as I reach for my clothes, I realize the victory feels like ash. I made her beg, but I’m the one who’s still starving. I’m the one who has to walk out of here with a head full of her scent and a body that’s screaming for her.
I’m the one losing my damned mind.