CHAPTER 25 #2
And just like that, as suddenly as he appeared, he moves away. I watch him climb out of the pool, water sliding down his sculpted body as if it regretted leaving him. He wraps himself in the robe without drying off, shoots me one last look loaded with promises, and walks away.
I'm left alone, my skin burning where his fingers touched me, my heart beating to an unfamiliar rhythm.
What have I gotten myself into?
DIMITRI
The lights of Las Vegas paint the night sky in purple and orange, an artificial sunset created by neon and spotlights. From the private table I've reserved at the rooftop restaurant, the view is spectacular. But my eyes are fixed only on her.
Sloane looks like a pagan goddess under the dim lighting.
She's chosen a simple but devastating black dress that hugs her curves like a second skin.
Her red hair falls in waves over her shoulders, framing a face that could launch a thousand wars.
No excessive makeup, no artifices. Natural and brutal in her beauty.
I've been watching her throughout dinner, cataloging every detail: how she holds her wine glass, how her eyes narrow slightly when something amuses her, how she bites the tip of her tongue when she's thinking of an answer.
The conversation has been surprisingly easy.
We've avoided dangerous topics, focusing on literature—she likes Russian classics, which intrigued me—music—our tastes couldn't be more opposite—and food—we share a weakness for dark chocolate.
Little windows into who we are outside this game of deception we play.
Because I know she's still lying. I see it in the way she avoids certain subjects, in how she sometimes seems to calculate her answers. But I also see flashes of truth, moments when the mask slips and I glimpse the real Sloane.
And I want more. I want everything.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, interrupting my contemplation. "You have that look again."
"What look?" I ask, taking a sip of my wine.
"Like you're trying to solve a puzzle," she replies, tilting her head slightly. "Like I'm a code you need to crack."
I smile. She's perceptive, I'll give her that.
"Maybe you are," I admit, setting the glass on the table. "Maybe we both are."
Silence falls between us, heavy with all the unasked questions, all the unspoken truths.
"Why are we doing this, Dimitri?" she finally asks, her voice soft but firm. "This dinner. This... truce."
"Because I want to know you," I reply with an honesty that surprises even me. "The real you, not the version you show the world."
Her eyes, those green pools that have bewitched me since day one, darken slightly.
"What if you don't like what you find?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications.
"That's a risk I'm willing to take," I reply, and I mean it.
Because it no longer matters if she works for some agency, if she's a spy, if her initial intention was to destroy us. The only thing that matters is that I want her. I want her with an intensity that scares me, that defies all logic.
And what I want, I take.
"Let's go," I say abruptly, leaving enough cash on the table to cover the bill and an exorbitant tip. "There's somewhere I want to show you."
"Now?" she asks, surprised by the sudden transition.
"Now," I confirm, holding out my hand.
She hesitates a second, then takes it. Her skin is soft, warm, a contrast to mine, hardened by years of violence. The difference fascinates me, like everything else about her.
I guide her out of the restaurant, through the casino, to the private elevator that leads to the apartments. But instead of pressing the button for the penthouse, where she resides, I press the one for the floor immediately below.
My floor. My territory.
"Where are we going?" she asks, and I detect a slight tremor in her voice.
"To my place," I reply simply.
The doors open directly into the hallway of my apartment.
We step inside. Unlike the penthouse, designed by professional decorators, my space reflects my tastes: minimalist, functional, with touches of my Russian heritage in the form of ancient icons and contemporary artwork by artists from St. Petersburg.
"Welcome," I say, letting her enter first.
I watch her as she explores the space, her eyes registering every detail. The living room with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Las Vegas. The stainless steel kitchen, hardly ever used. The slightly open door giving a glimpse of the master bedroom.
"Why did you bring me here?" she finally asks, turning to face me.
I approach her slowly, giving her time to back away if she wants to. She doesn't. She stands firm, defiant even now.
"Because I want you to sleep in my bed," I answer with brutal honesty. "I want to wake up and see you next to me. I want this apartment to smell like you."
Her lips part in a small gasp of surprise.
"Dimitri..." she begins, but I cut her off.
"I'm not asking for anything you don't want to give," I clarify, stopping inches from her. "I just want you to spend the night. Just sleep, if that's what you wish."
Disbelief paints her face.
"Are you telling me you brought me here, to your apartment, just to sleep?"
A slow smile curves my lips.
"I didn't say exactly that," I reply, my voice dropping an octave. "I said I wouldn't ask for anything you don't want to give. The question is, Sloane... what do you want?"
SLOANE
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with possibility. What do I want? It's a deceptively simple question that holds a universe of complications.
I want to complete my mission. I want to protect Harper. I want to discover the truth about the Morozovs.
But I also want this. Him. With an intensity that defies all reason and professionalism.
"I don't know," I reply honestly. "I shouldn't be here."
Dimitri takes another step toward me, entering my personal space like he always does, like he has a right to it. And the scariest part is that, somehow, I feel like he does.
"Why not?" he asks, his voice a low rumble vibrating in my chest.
"Because it's a bad idea," I reply, though I make no effort to pull away. "Because there are... complications."
"Your secrets?" he asks, lifting a hand to stroke my cheek with the backs of his fingers. A touch so soft I barely feel it, and yet, it sends shivers down my body. "Or mine?"
"Both," I admit, closing my eyes briefly at his caress. "This can't end well."
His hand slides to cup the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair.
"I'm not thinking about how it ends," he murmurs, bringing his face close to mine. "I'm thinking about right now."
And then he kisses me. Not with the animalistic urgency of our previous encounters, but with a tenderness that completely disarms me. His lips move over mine with deliberate slowness, as if he were savoring something precious, something that could break.
It's that contrast, that unexpected softness, that tears down my last defenses. My hands rise to clutch his shoulders, my body leaning instinctively into his, seeking more contact, more heat.
The kiss deepens gradually, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips, asking for entrance without demanding it. I grant it without hesitation, and the groan that escapes his throat when our tongues meet is the most erotic sound I've ever heard.
His hands drift down my back, caressing every vertebra through the fabric of my dress, until they settle on my waist. He pulls me closer until there's no space left between us, until I can feel every hard plane of his body against mine.
When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing hard. His eyes, usually clear as ice, are darkened by desire, his dilated pupils almost swallowing the gray.
"Stay," he whispers, and it's neither an order nor a plea. It's simply a desire, honest and direct. "Stay the night."
The decision is already made, I know. I knew it the moment I agreed to this dinner, maybe even before. From the instant I walked into the Tsarina, I've been on a collision course with this man. And I don't want to avoid it anymore.
"I'll stay," I reply, and something lights up in his eyes.
Without another word, he takes my hand and leads me toward the bedroom. The room is like him: elegant, masculine, without unnecessary frills. A king-sized bed dominates the space, dressed in silver-gray sheets that seem to shimmer under the dim lighting.
He turns to me, his hands finding the zipper of my dress with familiarity, as if he'd done this a thousand times.
Maybe he has, I think, with other women whose faces I'll never know.
But then his eyes find mine, and there's something in them.
.. a reverence, a wonder, that makes me feel like I'm the first.
The dress falls to my feet with a silky whisper, leaving me in only black lace lingerie. His eyes roam over my body with barely contained hunger, but his hands remain at his sides, letting me set the pace.
I take a step toward him and start to unbutton his shirt, button by button, gradually revealing the canvas of tattoos and scars that is his torso. Every mark tells a story I want to know, every symbol is a mystery I yearn to decipher.
When we're finally both down to our underwear, he takes me in his arms and lays me gently on the bed, as if I were something precious. He hovers over me, his arms on either side of my head, his body a shelter and a prison at the same time.
"You're mine," he says then, his voice a rough whisper that brooks no argument. "Do you understand, Sloane? Mine."
I should be offended by his possessiveness. I should remind him that I'm not an object he can own. I should keep at least that small part of my dignity intact.
But there's something about the way he says it, about the raw intensity of his gaze, that ignites a fire inside me that overrides all logic.
"Yes," I reply, the words coming out without my permission. "Yours."
A slow, almost predatory smile curves his lips.
He leans down to kiss me again, this time without restraint, pouring all the possessiveness, all the obsession he's been accumulating into that kiss.
His hand slides between our bodies, finding the edge of my panties, and I arch against him, inviting him to continue.
What follows is a symphony of sensations: his fingers exploring my most sensitive spots, my nails marking his back, our ragged breaths mingling in the night air.
When we finally join, when he enters me with a thrust that fills me completely, it's as if I've found a home I didn't know I was looking for.
We move together, our bodies finding a rhythm as old as time itself. His eyes never leave mine, keeping me anchored in the moment, preventing me from escaping even mentally. It's the most complete intimacy I've ever experienced, as if he were claiming not just my body, but my soul.
The climax comes like a storm, destroying everything in its path. My muscles tense, my vision blurs, and his name escapes my lips like a prayer. He follows me soon after, his face buried in my neck, his arms holding me tight against him as if he were afraid I might vanish.
Afterward, when our breathing has slowed and our bodies have cooled, we remain tangled under the sheets.
His hand lazily strokes my back, tracing invisible patterns on my skin.
There are questions floating in the air, truths that remain unspoken, but for now, in this stolen moment, none of that matters.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, his voice hoarse from the recent exertion.
"That I'm in trouble," I reply honestly, because what's the point of lying now?
His laugh is a low rumble vibrating against my side.
"Yes," he agrees, kissing my forehead with surprising tenderness. "You are."
There is no threat in his words, only a statement. And as I slip toward sleep in his arms, wrapped in his warmth and scent, I can't help but think he's right.
I'm in trouble. The biggest trouble of my life.
I'm in love with him.
And the worst part is, I don't care anymore.