Chapter 9
Vanya
A hot thrill tightens my gut when Paige doesn’t collapse, freak out, or break down as she recovers.
Which has me wondering whether she’s done this before.
Could she be more of an exhibitionist than I thought? The same way I seem to be more of a voyeur?
The idea of another man touching her leaves a sick, twisted ache in my stomach. I want to be the only one who causes her to squirm like this. The only one who knows what she’s like when the mask comes off.
Now, she doesn’t so much as slouch in the booth. Instead, she sits a little taller, her chin up and practically daring me to find a single crack in her armor.
Obsession.
I have no other word to explain this deep-seated need in my chest as she accepts the next course like I didn’t just finger fuck her into oblivion.
I catalogue all these tidbits into the file in my mind I’ve started for this multi-layered woman. An imaginary box is easier to manage than the raw emotions gnawing at my self-control.
As I tuck that away, I remind myself she’s only a project. I can’t afford to get jealous, or…whatever this is. She’s a means to an end, that’s all.
I take a few minutes to rebuild myself, studying her and learning all I can without getting distracted by the way her pink tongue glides over her lips.
I manage to calm down as each beautifully plated course is delivered with a flourish. Servers sweep in, gather old plates, refill or swap out glasses, then drop off the next set. Everything is choreographed for pleasure, for indulgence, for a performance of edible art.
Throughout the night, Paige plays her role perfectly. Her hair’s slightly tousled, and she blushes when my thigh grazes hers, but otherwise, she acts polite and relaxed.
If I didn’t know better, I’d believe she was enjoying herself.
I track every shift in her posture, every heavy inhale, each flicker of her eyes. She’s recovered faster than I expected.
Finally, the last course arrives. The grand finale is a deconstructed tart, bright with sugared berries, a cut and stacked pate sucrée, a dollop of crème d’amande, and decorative pools of red currant jelly, apricot jam, and lemon curd.
Tiny forks force diners to take only one nibble of an offering at a time.
“A tart that’s fallen to pieces? How apropos.
” I give Paige a knowing glance, then scoop up the crème d’amande with the same fingers I used on her.
After dabbing the dessert on my lips, I slowly lick it off.
Her eyes follow my every action, so I swipe the lemon curd next and taste that the same way.
“Oh, much sweeter than I anticipated. That’s twice tonight. ”
Paige flushes, then examines the plate.
Ignoring me, she starts eating the delicacies completely out of order. Crème d’amande, currant jelly, pastry, then berries. Next round, pastry, crème, berries, and apricot jam.
She hums with each little bite, her tongue sweeping out to collect crumbs and jam from her lips.
At the end, she only has a small smear of crème left.
She works the crème into a blob on the tines of her tiny fork before lifting her head, putting the fork to her mouth, and wrapping her lips around the utensil halfway up the handle.
Closing her eyes, she moans slightly and slowly pulls the fork from her mouth, dragging it over her lips.
Fuck me.
Maybe her obscene gesture is on purpose, a way of seeking revenge. Or maybe it’s her way of enticing me to do more.
The woman’s certainly a masterpiece of the unexpected.
The bill arrives, and I pass over my card without looking. There’s no rush from the staff to leave, even as the chefs start cleaning their stations.
Paige stops pretending patience is one of her strengths. She stands, smoothing her clothes as she rises. With a miniscule shake of the head, her long honey hair slides like a silk wave down her back. It’s longer than I realized, curling slightly at the bottom of her tight ass.
She’s mesmerizing, but for the sake of the mission, I can’t afford to let her charm me.
Her posture is just as prim and proper as ever. For a second, I recognize the woman who stalks the stacks like a guardian warrior.
Too bad she doesn’t appear as debauched as I’m sure she feels.
I’ll have to be content with the knowledge that she came all over my fingers in the middle of dinner.
She accepts the arm I extend, her fingers light on my suit jacket. She holds her body far enough away that we won’t accidentally touch otherwise.
So I construct a few incidents to get closer, just to see her squirm.
Timing my actions to her steps, I shift my arm, pulling her off-balance. She stumbles a little but remains upright. She even manages to twist away as I try to catch her.
That’s what I get for forgetting about those reasonable, un-heeled shoes.
When I open the door, I pretend the wind pushes it back and abruptly halt, assuming she’ll accidentally slam into me.
Instead, she freezes and grabs the doorframe.
The thrill of our dance sparks my chest like firecrackers.
She lets me guide her out and doesn’t flinch when my hand hovers against her back as the valet returns with my Bentley. I hold her door open, and her skirt rides up while she slides in. A faint pink tints her cheeks as she tugs the material back down.
I ate dinner with her scent on my hand, but she’s blushing because I saw her knee and a bit of thigh.
I fight back the grin threatening to spread across my face.
This one’s trouble.
Passing a tip to the valet, I circle the car. Paige doesn’t glance up as I slip behind the wheel.
Neither of us talks on the drive back to her apartment. Her fragrance fills my car, lilies and old books and lemon curd from dessert.
As I cut through traffic, the city lights blur. Paige gasps, enticing me to accelerate and swiftly weave through the other cars. On each occasion, her breath hitches, and once or twice, I glimpse her tongue peeking out and wetting her lips.
Oh yeah, she’s definitely hiding a bad girl under that prim and proper costume.
An archivist in the streets, but what about in the sheets? Not that quiet, controlled woman I saw at Coquette, that’s for sure.
I’m more than a little tempted to pull over on the side of the road, fold the seats back, and see what she’s like with a bit more privacy. I’m determined to discover what breaks loose when she’s brought to the edge without anyone else noticing.
Except me.
I want to witness each fussy layer fall away.
Before I succumb to my fantasy, we reach her building.
By the time I kill the engine and climb out, she’s halfway to her stoop. I hurry to block her path.
Lifting her chin, she does her best to look down on me even though she’s several inches shorter. But her breath is still heavy from my fast driving and hard braking.
I smile and extend my arm, pressuring her to choose between the propriety or rejecting me like a bad girl. Either way, I win.
She slides her arm through mine, avoiding my eyes, and forces me to step faster as she leads us to her apartment.
At her door, Paige keeps her gaze on her purse while she searches for her keys. “You don’t need to wait.”
“Of course I do. The date’s not over until you’re safely inside. What kind of man would I be if I abandoned you here alone?” It takes everything in me not to pick the lock again, just to show her how easily I can.
But I’m a gentleman, or at least playing the part of one, so I wait with my hands clasped behind my back as she finally gets the key in the doorknob.
As the door swings open, I throw my arm up, impeding her. She freezes, her glare sharp enough to cut diamonds.
I return the blistering glower with a grin. “I’ll leave you here, on the verge of going back to your dry, withered life. Where you can hide behind your books and your fake credentials. Pretend none of this happened.” Straightening, I drop my arm. “Unless, of course, you want to invite me in.”
Those blue eyes widen, and her lips pop open. “That will not be happening.”
“Up to you. I’ll go now, since it’s clear I’m not wanted.” I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “But until you give me what I need, you’ll never be alone. Not in your apartment, not in the library, or anywhere in between. Until that book’s in my hands, you’re mine, Paige.”
With trembling lips, she nods, ducks under my arm, and slams the door shut.
Paige
I engage the lock with a solid thunk that should guarantee safety.
Unfortunately, Vanya’s already gotten past it once before.
His words echo in my head. I’m not free from him, not really. He can get to me anywhere.
Why didn’t I throw him out the first day, after he stole my pen?
Because when it comes to men like Vanya Orlov, apparently, I’m weak and incapable of resisting them.
Not bothering to flick on a single light, I sag against the door, slide down the cool wood, and wait for my pulse to slow.
It doesn’t.
For a long moment, all I can do is slump with my head tipped back and my eyes closed. Everywhere he touched me still thrums with electricity. The neglected parts prickle with jealousy.
Withered life…
My life isn’t withered.
It never fully bloomed.
Angry at myself and my self-defeating thoughts, I shove away from the door and hang up my purse. I strip off every piece of clothing that still carries his lingering scent, head to my room, and hit the light switch.
The room is just as I left it. The sheets, the books stacked by the lamp, the e-reader charging on my dresser. Except for the bright slash of red on my bed, which freezes me in place.
Dead center on my pillow, like a perfectly placed warning, lies a single red rose. The shade almost looks black at the base, every petal thick and screaming of danger.
My bed.
He was in my room.
He’s been in more than just my room tonight.
But that’s different. I accepted that, consented to it.
This is a violation. An invasion.
Horror kicks up in my throat, then rage at the intrusion. Who does Vanya think he is? How dare he do this?
I want to shriek and curse and call the police. According to a study I read, it may be possible to extract fingerprints from plant leaves.
But I know I won’t do that.
Realistically, I can only storm over and snatch the damn thing off the pillow, thorns and all. Ripping the petals off, I break the stem into smaller pieces and toss them into the bathroom trash.
Even my garbage can isn’t safe from him.
Flipping on the shower, I finish undressing in a rush and duck under the water before it’s had a chance to heat. Maybe the shock of cold will finally quiet the pounding of my heart and numb the awareness of my skin, allowing me to get back to the woman I worked so hard to become.
God help me. Even now, after everything, the shivering rawness under my flesh is all him.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to purge him.