31. Tatiana
31
Tatiana
T uesday. Three days left.
Three days until our little marriage experiment concludes. Three days until Dom gets his freedom back from the impulsive decision we made in Vegas. Three days until I pack up my perfectly organized temporary existence in this penthouse and return to my real life.
I’ll ever only see his gorgeous, infuriating face in passing when he comes to visit Christopher.
Assuming he drops by during work hours ever again.
Ah, shit.
To add insult to injury, we haven’t had sex since before he got sick.
Not that I’m counting or anything.
Except you totally are, Tatiana. You’re practically marking the days off on a sex calendar.
I tap my pen against my lower lip, staring at my computer screen without really seeing it. Christopher is in back-to-back meetings all morning, which means I should be catching up on emails or finalizing his schedule for next week. Instead, I’m replaying Dom’s behavior on an endless loop.
The way he looked at me when I took care of him during his fever. Vulnerable. Almost... grateful.
And then how quickly he shut down the next day. The cutting remarks about my resort project work. Taking that call from his ex right in front of me.
It’s whiplash-inducing. One minute we’re having incredible sex and I’m nursing him back to health, the next he’s treating me like I’m barely worth acknowledging.
Classic billionaire mood swing. Should come with a warning label.
The logical part of my brain, which is the dominant part, usually, knows this is for the best. We’re temporary. Contractually obligated to part ways in three days. Getting emotionally entangled would be disastrous.
Yet here I am, sitting at my pristine desk at Blackwell Innovations, unable to focus because I’m obsessing over a man who clearly wants nothing more to do with me.
A text notification pops up on my phone. It’s from Eleanor Vance, Dom’s executive assistant.
Mr. Rossi requests your presence for a 12:15pm conference call regarding the Serenity Shores eastern wing revisions. Calendar invite sent.
Well, at least it’s during my lunch break. He has at least a modicum of respect for my work here with Christopher.
I check my email and, sure enough, there’s the invitation. My first instinct is to decline. Why would I want to subject myself to more Dom criticism?
But something else stirs inside me. Something that feels suspiciously like defiance.
You know what? Screw this.
If Dom wants to play it cool, I can play too. But I’m done being the docile temp wife who takes his emotional distance lying down.
I accept the invitation and spend the next hour meticulously preparing for the call. I review every detail of my eastern wing proposal, compile additional data supporting my approach, and even draft potential counterarguments to any criticism he might raise. I know I should be concentrating on Christopher’s tasks, but I can’t. I’m far too distracted.
Far too pissed off at Dom.
By the time 12:15 rolls around, I’m armed and dangerous. Well, with spreadsheets and facts anyway.
I dial into the conference line with exactly thirty seconds to spare.
Professional punctuality is supposed to be my superpower, after all.
“Mrs. Rossi, thank you for joining us,” Eleanor’s voice comes through first. “Mr. Rossi is just connecting.”
“Thank you, Eleanor,” I reply, keeping my tone neutrally pleasant. “And please, call me Tatiana.”
There’s a click, and then Dom’s deep voice fills my ear. “Eleanor, Tatiana, I trust we’re ready to proceed?”
The formal, detached way he says my name makes my teeth clench. This is the same man who had his tongue between my thighs not that long ago, and now he sounds like we’re barely acquaintances.
Focus, Tatiana. This is business.
“Of course,” I respond, matching his professional tone. “I’ve reviewed the eastern wing revisions as requested.”
“Good. I’ve made some adjustments to your proposal that I believe address the structural concerns I mentioned yesterday regarding the solar panel installation.”
I pull up the document he’s referencing, scanning the changes quickly. My blood pressure rises with each modification I see. He’s completely gutted my efficiency improvements, reverting to a design that will cost at least 15% more and take weeks longer to implement.
Stay calm. Focus. Breathe.
“I see the changes,” I say carefully. “However, I’m concerned that these revisions compromise the sustainability goals we established for the project.”
There’s a pause, and I can almost feel the temperature drop through the phone line.
“The sustainability goals remain intact,” Dom responds, his voice clipped. “What’s been adjusted is the implementation timeline to ensure proper foundation work.”
“With all due respect,” I continue, emboldened by his dismissal, “the foundation team already approved my approach. These changes seem... arbitrary.”
Another pause, longer this time.
What are you doing, Tatiana? Poking the bear is never a good idea. Especially while another of his employees is on the line.
But I can’t stop myself. Something about his cold detachment after our moments of genuine connection has unleashed a reckless streak in me.
“ Arbitrary? ” he repeats, the word dangerously soft.
“Yes,” I push on. “The data clearly supports my original timeline. The adjustments you’ve made appear to be more about control than actual improvement.”
I hear Eleanor’s sharp intake of breath on the line.
“I think perhaps we should table this discussion,” Dom says, his voice tight. “Eleanor, please schedule a private meeting for later today where Mrs. Rossi and I can discuss this more thoroughly.”
“Of course, Mr. Rossi,” Eleanor replies quickly.
“That won’t be necessary,” I interject. “I’m perfectly capable of discussing this now, unless there’s some reason you’re uncomfortable having this conversation with Eleanor present?”
Stop. Talking. Now.
But the words keep coming, fueled by hurt and frustration.
“Or is this just another example of your emotional unavailability? Shutting down whenever something gets too personal?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve crossed a line.
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Eleanor,” Dom finally says, his voice eerily calm, “please excuse us for a moment.”
“Of course, sir,” she responds, and I hear the click as she disconnects.
Then it’s just Dom and me on the line, the tension crackling between us.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asks, his voice low, barely controlled.
Heat rushes to my face. “Expressing a professional opinion about a project I’ve been working on.”
“Bullshit. This isn’t about the project.”
“Isn’t it?” I challenge. “Or is it that you can’t handle someone questioning your authority? Especially someone you’ve been sleeping with?”
“We’ll discuss this at home,” he says, the finality in his tone making it clear the conversation is over.
“Fine,” I reply coolly. “I look forward to it.”
The line goes dead.
I sit back in my chair, heart racing, a mixture of dread and exhilaration coursing through me. What the hell have I just done?
Well, that’s one way to get his attention. Contradicting him and calling him emotionally unavailable in front of one of his employees?
Nicely done, Tatiana.
Part of me feels victorious. Another part is already calculating how many boxes I’ll need to pack my things when this inevitably blows up in my face. Though honestly, what “things” am I even talking about? The designer wardrobe I’ve accumulated since cashing that advance check? The pretentious Cartier watch that cost more than my first car?
Look at you, Temporary Mrs. Billionaire, acting like you’ve moved in when your actual personal possessions are still sitting in that overnight bag you never unpacked.
It’s true. I never fully unpacked. Why would I, when I always knew this marriage came with a timer?
Still, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss those obscenely expensive pantsuits and that silky bedding that feels like sleeping on a cloud.
Apparently money can’t buy happiness, but it can certainly buy Egyptian cotton with an astronomical thread count.
My phone pings with a text from my boss Christopher: Need you in the Thompson meeting in 5.
Work.
Right.
I still have a real job to do, regardless of whatever drama I’ve just stirred up with my temporary husband.
I straighten my blazer, take a deep breath, and push thoughts of Dom to the back of my mind.
Professional Tatiana is back in control.
At least until I have to go home tonight.
God I’m dreading it.
The penthouse is quiet when I arrive just after seven fifteen. I spent an extra hour and a half at work pretending to be productive while actually just rearranging paper clips into geometric patterns. My dinner consisted of a sad desk salad from that place Christopher ‘s wife swears is “life-changing,” but the only life change I experienced was wondering how anyone charges $22 for wilted lettuce and three cherry tomatoes.
Eventually, even I couldn’t justify reorganizing the coffee pods by roast intensity, so I surrendered to fate and had my security detail take me home. The Manhattan traffic was predictably bad. Nothing like crawling ten blocks in forty-five minutes to really marinate in your own bad decisions.
I kick off my heels by the door, rolling my neck to release the tension that’s been building all afternoon. No sign of Dom.
Maybe he’s still at the office. Or maybe he’s avoiding you after your little performance.
That would actually be... kinda good? Maybe?
I pad toward the guest suite, intent on changing into something more comfortable before figuring out where Dom is hiding.
“Tatiana.”
His voice stops me in my tracks. Dom stands in the doorway of his home office, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He looks tired. And irritated.
He coughs suddenly, quietly, a residual effect of the flu he had.
“Dom,” I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral. “I didn’t think you were home yet.”
“Clearly.” He pushes away from the doorframe, moving toward me with deliberate steps. “We need to talk about that call today.”
I lift my chin slightly. “Oh? What about it?”
“You know exactly what.” He’s close now, close enough that I can smell his hot cologne. “What the hell were you thinking, challenging me like that in front of Eleanor?”
“I was thinking that your revisions to my plan were inefficient and unnecessary,” I reply, standing my ground despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach. “And that I’m tired of being dismissed whenever I have a valid point to make.”
His eyes darken. “This isn’t about the fucking project.”
“Maybe not entirely,” I admit. “But that doesn’t make my concerns any less valid.”
“You wanted my attention, is that it?” The question is quiet, dangerous. “Well you have it. So I ask again. And I want the truth this time: What the fuck was that call today?”
The air between us crackles, fraught with tension. We’re standing in the hallway, neither advancing nor retreating, locked in some silent battle of wills.
“That call,” I say slowly, “was me refusing to be ignored or pushed aside just because you’ve decided to go back to being an emotionless robot.”
“Emotionless robot,” he repeats, taking another step closer. “Is that what you think?”
“What else am I supposed to think? One minute you’re asking me to stay by your side when you’re sick, the next you’re taking calls from your ex right in front of me and criticizing my work without valid reason.”
His jaw tightens. “I had valid reasons.”
“No, you had control issues,” I counter. “There’s a difference.”
Anger flashes in his eyes, along with frustration and something else I can’t quite name. Before I can react, he’s backing me against the wall, one hand braced beside my head.
“ Control issues?” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “You want to see control issues?”
“Yes,” I whisper, but it’s not loud enough for him to hear. My heart hammers against my ribs. This close, I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, smell the coffee on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his body.
“What was that?” he asks. “I didn’t hear you.” But before I can answer, he’s already adding, “You deliberately provoked me today. Why?”
I swallow hard, torn between defiance and desire. “Maybe I wanted to see if you still cared enough to get angry.”
His eyes narrow. “Is that what this is about? You think I don’t care?”
“You’ve made it pretty clear, Dom.”
He leans closer, his lips inches from mine. “Have I?”
And then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding. There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. It’s all claiming, consuming, punishing. His hand tangles in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp.
I should push him away. I should maintain whatever shred of dignity I have left.
Instead, I kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all my frustration and confusion into it.
He breaks away suddenly, his breathing ragged. “You want to challenge me, Tatiana? Fine. But there are consequences.”
“We shouldn’t do this,” I tell him. “We’re just making this harder.”
“I agree,” he responds, but that doesn’t change the hunger in his eyes. He’s like a predator. A wolf sighting a sheep.
Before I can process what’s happening, he’s leading me into his office, his grip on my wrist firm but not painful. He closes the door behind us with a decisive click.
“Bend over the desk,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my abdomen. “What?”
“You heard me.” His eyes are dark with desire and determination. “Consider it a lesson in respecting the chain of command.”
I should laugh in his face. I should walk away.
But the truth is, I want this. Want him. Have been wanting him since before he got sick.
And there are only three days left.
What’s the worst that could happen? Other than developing even stronger feelings for a man who’s counting down the days to the annulment of our marriage?
I turn slowly and approach his massive oak desk. My hands tremble slightly as I place them on the polished surface.
“Is this how you handle all your business disagreements?” I ask, aiming for sarcastic but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
His hand lands on my lower back, warm and steady. “Only with extremely stubborn wives who deliberately provoke me.”
The word “wives” sends an unexpected pang through my chest.
Soon, I won’t be that anymore. Soon—
But his fingers trace down my spine, cutting off all thought.
I tremble as he touch stops at the hem of my pencil skirt. “This is coming off.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. His hands are skilled, finding the zipper and lowering it in one smooth motion. The skirt pools around my ankles, leaving me in just my blouse, underwear, and stockings.
“Fucking hottest ass in the world,” he murmurs, and despite everything, I feel a flush of pleasure at the approval in his voice.
His palm smooths over the curve of my ass, gentle at first, then with more pressure. “Do you know why you’re being punished, Tatiana?”
I swallow, suddenly finding it hard to form words. “For challenging you during the call?”
“For deliberately trying to provoke me,” he corrects. “For not coming to me directly with your concerns.”
His hand leaves my skin, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting. When the first smack lands, the sensation is more surprising than painful, a sharp sting that quickly blooms into warmth.
I gasp, my fingers curling against the desk.
“Too much?” he asks, his voice softer now.
“No,” I manage. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” His hand connects again, slightly harder this time. “Because we’re just getting started.”
What follows is a meticulous, measured punishment, each smack precisely calculated, followed by a gentle caress that soothes the sting. He works methodically, covering every inch of my backside until I’m squirming, caught between discomfort and a building, insistent arousal in my center.
“Still okay?” he checks in, his hand resting on my heated skin.
“Yes,” I breathe, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
His fingers slip beneath the edge of my underwear, finding me embarrassingly wet.
“Hmm,” he says, satisfaction evident in his tone. “You’re fucking soaking . Someone’s enjoying her punishment.”
I should be mortified. Instead, I push back against his hand, seeking more contact.
“Please,” I whisper, past the point of pride.
“Please what?” His fingers dig deeper into my panties, and tease my pussy, never quite giving me what I need.
“Touch me.” I bite my lower lip. “Properly.”
He chuckles, the sound dark and promising. “All in good time.”
He removes my underwear with excruciating slowness, then turns me to face him. His eyes are heated as they take in my disheveled state. Blouse rumpled, hair a mess, standing before him half-naked and desperate. My gaze drops to his crotch, and I can see the outline of his engorged member standing out in stark relief beneath his pants.
“On your knees,” he directs, and I comply without hesitation.
He unbuckles his belt, the sound of leather sliding through fabric loops inexplicably erotic. His eyes never leave mine as he unzips his pants, freeing his cock, already hard and straining.
“Open,” he commands, and I part my lips, anticipation building as he guides himself into my mouth.
His groan of satisfaction as I take him in sends a thrill through me. This... this is power, too. I felt it on Day 2 when I first completed Clause 7b. I felt it again on Day 14. And I’m feeling it now.
The way his hands tighten in my hair, the way his breathing hitches when I hollow my cheeks and suck harder.
“Fuck, Tatiana,” he rasps. “Your mouth...”
I look up at him through my lashes, reveling in the raw desire on his face. In this moment, there’s no distance between us, no emotional walls. Just need, pure and simple.
He pulls back suddenly, his control visibly fraying. “Stand up. Turn around.”
I’m actually relieved. It’s... uncomfortable ... to use a euphemism, when he loses control and frantically pounds my mouth with that huge cock of his.
I obey, facing the desk again. I hear him tear open a condom packet, and glance over my shoulder in time to catch him sliding the sheath over his gorgeous cock.
Next his hands are on my hips, positioning me, and then he’s pushing into me in one fluid motion that makes me cry out.
“Is this what you wanted when you provoked me?” he asks, his voice strained as he begins to move. “To be fucked over my desk?”
“Maybe,” I admit, gasping as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “Is it working?”
His pace intensifies in response, one hand sliding around to circle my clit with maddening precision. “What do you think?”
I can’t think at all. Can only feel. His cock is stretching me perfectly, while his fingers work magic on my most sensitive spot. The lingering sting of the spanking only adds a complex layer to the heat building inside me... making that heat feel somehow even more pleasurable, if that’s possible.
“Dom,” I warn, feeling myself teetering on the edge. “I’m going to—”
“Cum for me,” he urges, his rhythm never faltering. “ Now , Tatiana.”
My orgasm crashes through me with stunning intensity, wave after wave of pleasure that has me crying out his name repeatedly.
“Dom! Dom! FUCK! DOM!”
He follows moments later, his grip on my hips almost bruising as he pulses inside his condom.
For several long moments, we stay locked together, both catching our breath. His forehead rests against my shoulder, his breathing gradually slowing.
Reality seeps back in by degrees.
He withdraws carefully, helping me stand upright. He removes the condom, tosses it into the trash bin next to the desk.
I pull my panties back on, and there’s an awkward moment as we both straighten our clothing, the heated passion of moments ago giving way to something more uncertain.
He studies me a moment, and there’s a doubt in his gaze. And then a switch flicks, as if he’s made up his mind. “We should get cleaned up. Dinner?”
Just like that, we’re back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal in this bizarre relationship.
“Sure,” I agree. “Dinner sounds good. I only had a salad.”
As I head to the bathroom to freshen up, I try to ignore the way my heart aches beneath my ribs.
Three days left. And then what?
I’ve survived being left at the altar. I can survive this too.
But as I catch sight of my flushed face in the mirror, eyes still bright from our encounter, I wonder if I’m only fooling myself.
Because the truth is, somewhere between Vegas and now, between contract clauses and heated arguments, between taking care of him during his fever and being bent over his desk...
I’ve fallen for my temporary husband. I’m not even going to try denying it anymore.
And yes, losing him is going to hurt.
Badly.
I’ll survive. I’ll have to.