CHAPTER FIFTEEN
brYCE
“You’ve got strong hands… I like that in a woman.”
“Vell, vell,” she replies in a truly offensive Russian accent, her thumbs digging deeper into my glutes. “Zis is vhat all ze men tell me before zey cry like leetle babies asking for mercy.”
My ass clenches.
That accent should be flagged by Interpol and sent to rot in a Siberian gulag.
But those hands… Those warm, smooth, dangerously familiar hands?
My body clocks them immediately. They’re the same ones that clawed at my back last night.
That gripped my shoulders. That clung to me—trembling—when I made her fall apart.
Again. And again. And again.
Six times.
Not that I’m counting (Okay, I totally am).
I have no clue why Petra is pretending to be a masseuse, and honestly?
I don’t care. After a self-inflicted day of icy distance, I’ll play along.
Let her knead my spine and talk in her ridiculous drawl.
If it means I get to be close to her—I’ll take it.
Being in her presence lifts the weight from my chest.
“You ver’ stiff here,” she says.
“Yes, I’ve been carrying some particularly… stubborn tension.”
“Must fix.”
Her response is immediate and merciless. She drives her elbow into a pressure point just above my hip bone as though she’s trying to rupture an organ.
“Christ!” I hiss, fingers curling around the edges of the padded table. “That’s… effective.”
“Is healing,” she chirps. “In my village of… Russi-vania… you want feel good, you first suffer.”
Without warning, she pinches my ass. Hard.
I jolt. “Jesus!”
“Much stiffness in ze gluteus butticus.”
She has no idea how stiff she’s making me, her palms kneading my ass. Lying face down on this table is getting increasingly uncomfortable by the minute.
She pinches harder. “You seem like ze type of man who cannot handle vings vhen zey get difficult. Zis is too intense, dah?”
“It’s fine,” I grit out.
I deserve every damn ounce of pain she’s giving me.
Last night, she entrusted me with parts of herself that I know she fiercely protects.
The way she lay against me afterward, all that fierce energy finally at peace, trusting me enough to let her guard down completely.
And how did I repay her? By treating her like a mistake, as if she were something to hide, a regrettable lapse in judgment.
I thought having her would set me free—physical release, mutual satisfaction, clean boundaries. Instead, I woke up this morning feeling as if I’d left part of myself in her bed. What the hell kind of reaction is that ?
I keep trying to classify what happened between us. To place it neatly into a box. But she doesn’t fit into any framework I’m aware of. She’s not like the women in my world. She wants neither my name nor my money… so what does she want?
Her elbows dig into my waist with such force, I almost launch off the table. I mask my pain with a grunt.
There’s a very real chance I’ll leave this room with a slipped disc and a lifelong limp.
This massage was supposed to be my opportunity to strategize—damage control, press statements, my impending CEO coronation.
Instead? I’m lying here, surrendering to her torture like a masochist, simply because she’s touching me.
This is sheer lunacy. I should end this charade right now. Drop the act, stare her down, have an actual conversation as two adults who’ve seen each other naked.
I have three days until I leave for New York permanently. Before this fantasy week is over and we return to our separate realities. I’m aware this doesn’t come with a future. I get that I can’t keep her. So how do I explain I need these next few days with her like I need air?
She’s everything my world isn’t—uncontrolled, unpredictable, real.
She startles me, delivering a vicious chop to my shoulder blade that resembles being hit with a meat tenderizer.
“Da rich men love vis torture.”
“I see. Well, maybe you could shift into something a bit less… medieval,” I suggest. “Something with more fluidity. More sensual and graceful.”
“I give you superior treatment.”
She pauses. Long enough to make me hopeful.
WHAP! Her palm connects with my ass .
“SON OF A—” I bite off the rest of the curse.
She slaps my backside again—and yanks a leg hair clean out of my thigh.
“What the hell was that?”
“Siberian bear slap. My babushka always say: ‘Man who squeaks during massage don’t expect a roar in bed.’”
I could stop this. Turn over, apologize like a grown-ass man, and face whatever fallout’s coming. But no. I go full idiot and poke the bear.
“Out of curiosity, what is the official stance of Casa Cashmere on, shall we say, ‘happy endings’? Hypothetically speaking… for a friend.”
“Tell friend to go home and finish job himself.”
I grin against the face cradle. “You see, that’s the issue. My… friend had a rather zealous partner last night. Quite vigorous, really went for it. But occasionally, a man requires… a sense of completion.”
“Maybe is you—your friend,” she stammers in her faux Russian accent, “who has difficulty with… how you say… finishing.”
“You’re accusing me— him —of performance issues?”
“Is common, yes? Vealthy men have big bank, small bang.”
Petra’s palms press into my back with renewed vengeance—my spine is about to go straight through this massage table.
“Absolutely. Right there,” I say, teasing her despite the pain. “So much more effective than last night’s encounter. I’m beginning to suspect you might be the woman who can actually… finish the job properly.”
The room goes dead silent except for the distant trickle of water over stones and my own thundering heartbeat.
She pulls the towel off my body. A whip of air. Then—
CRACK!
White-hot shock detonates across my left butt cheek.
“Fuck!” I shoot off the massage table from the painful towel snap. One hand clutching the surface, the other protecting my balls.
She’s already halfway to the door, her spa slippers slapping against polished stone as she unleashes a stream of pure Petra fury.
“Rich pervert! Dickweasel! Pig!”
“Pip—stop. Please!” I secure the towel around my waist.
She goes statue-still, then pivots slowly, her hazel-green eyes igniting with the force of a controlled explosion.
“You knew?”
“Yes. From the moment you said ‘wery important glutes. No real Russian says ‘wery.’”
For the first time since she started this ridiculous performance, I can see her face.
And damn, it hits me. I’ve always been drawn to her bad-girl aesthetic—that bold red lipstick, sharp eyeliner, and clothes that say don’t mess with me .
But this unguarded, natural version? It’s a new kind of allure.
Her lips are bare and pink. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lashes accentuate eyes that are more vulnerable without the war paint. No act. No armor. Just her.
Two sides of the same remarkable woman, and this one is even more captivating.
I don’t stand a chance.
“You are… astonishingly gorgeous,” I manage to say.
Something flickers across her features—surprise, possibly pleasure—before she catches herself and lifts a hand to her face, suddenly aware of her natural state. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by rage .
“You don’t get to play with me like some fuck toy then ghost me,” she snaps.
“You’re absolutely right.”
“Great. Glad we agree. Have a nice life, Moneybags.”
She spins toward the door, and every trained instinct screams at me to let her go. She is chaos; I am the epitome of order. She acts on impulse; I act on careful consideration.
We do not make sense.
“I can’t comprehend what’s happening to me,” I say, feeling as though I’m stepping off a ledge. “I’ve never… I’m not usually… Christ!” I drag a hand through my hair. “You’ve completely unsettled me, turned me into someone I hardly recognize, and I’m terrified.”
I edge closer. She’s facing away, but she’s listening.
“I tried to treat last night as though it meant nothing. I convinced myself that I could neatly file it away and move on. But it’s impossible. You’re in my mind, Pip. Under my skin. And I am unsure what to do about that.”
I reach out, gently guiding her to meet my gaze. The anguish in her eyes is my undoing—my silence and cowardice are to blame.
“Tell me how to fix this,” I murmur. “Whatever it takes. Just don’t leave.”
“No fixing needed.” She shrugs coolly. “We had one incredible night. Now it’s finished. That’s how flings work.”
“Give me these next three days,” I say. “I want to wake up with you and pretend that our lives fit together. I want to be selfish and reckless until reality separates us.”
I touch the sleeve of her robe, fingers trailing down to brush hers. She sucks in a sharp breath and holds it .
“I know it’s wrong, Petra. And I know it complicates things. But whether it’s days or months, it makes no difference. I’ll still crave you when this ends. Please, let me drown in you while I can.”
Her eyes flash—sharp, assessing, as though she’s weighing her options against her better judgment.
Finally, she tilts her chin, defiant. “Then quit talking and fuck me.”
I grab her waist and pull her in. Our mouths collide—hot, hungry, and no restraint. I kiss her like I’ve got something to prove. Our lips push and pull in a perfect storm of contradictions—fierce yet tender, like we’re both wanting to savor and devour.
Her hands slide into my hair, deepening the kiss. Her moan vibrates through my chest, a sensual melody that lights me up inside.
I clutch her hips, pressing her right into my growing cock. The towel offers little to cover up my readiness for her.
“God, you drive me insane,” I whisper into her skin.
With a hungry urgency, I push the robe down her shoulders, uncovering the silky landscape of her skin. The sight of her, so bare and captivating, sends a tidal wave of desire crashing through me.
Her nimble fingers undo the knot at my waist, the fabric dropping, and she’s already wrapping her hands around me.