38. Tatiana
38
Tatiana
I check myself in the mirror one more time, smoothing down the invisible wrinkles in my charcoal pencil skirt. The cream blouse is simple but expensive, one of the many purchases I’ve made with my advance.
Because nothing says “I’m totally fine with our relationship ending tomorrow” like spending money on designer clothes I’ll probably never wear again.
My mind drifts back to this morning’s boardroom scene. The champagne toasts. The handshakes. The billions changing hands as Dom’s resort deal finally closed. The sheer relief on his face when that last signature was in place. I felt it too. That rush of accomplishment, that pride in what we’d pulled off together.
Quite the power couple we’ve become. Too bad our expiration date is literally tomorrow.
The annulment papers are probably sitting on his lawyer’s desk right now, waiting for our signatures.
The thought makes my stomach twist. I’m not even sure I want to sign them anymore, honestly. Because maybe there’s a chance. He looked at me differently last night, held me like I mattered. The things he whispered about connections that can’t be denied, about me finding my way past all his barriers. Those weren’t just empty words.
Or were they?
Today, after the meeting, I asked him what’s next for us.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he told me.
Later. Always later, with him.
And I suppose there won’t be time to talk about it when he gets home. He’ll probably be in a rush, wanting to make this business dinner thing.
On cue, I hear the penthouse front door swinging open, pulling me from my thoughts.
Dom’s home.
Here to pick me up for dinner.
I step out of the bathroom just as he strides in. He’s loosening his tie with one hand while the other clutches his phone like he’s trying to strangle it. His face is a storm cloud. Like, literally.
“Hey,” I say, aiming for casual but landing somewhere near cautious. “Ready for the dinner? And congratulations on the deal, again. We did it.”
He grunts distractedly, moving to the bar and pouring himself two fingers of whiskey. He doesn’t offer one to me. The amber liquid disappears in one swallow, and he immediately pours another.
Well, this is going splendidly already. Nothing says ‘celebratory mood’ like day drinking alone while your temp wife stands awkwardly in the living room.
“Is everything okay?” I venture.
“Fine.” The word is clipped, defensive.
I take a deep breath and sigh quietly. So I’ll be getting Ice King Dom this evening. Should I even bother to try now? Or wait until after dinner?
I elect to try...
“Dom, maybe we should talk about...” Us. Tomorrow. About the way you held me last night like I was something precious. And the way you’re looking at me now like I’m a complete and total stranger. “...what happens next.”
He sets the glass down with enough force that the crystal makes a sharp sound against the marble countertop. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
God, his words hurt. I suppose I should know better than to try talking to him about this when he’s in one of his moods. But there isn’t really much time. We have to have a serious discussion about this before it’s too late.
I step closer, emboldened by the ticking clock. “Last night you said—”
He crosses the room in three long strides, and suddenly he’s right in front of me, his hands cupping my face, his mouth crashing down on mine. The kiss is hard, demanding, nothing like the tender one we shared last night.
I gasp, surprised, and he takes advantage, his tongue pushing into my mouth. His hands are already working at the buttons of my blouse, impatient, almost angry.
What the hell?
I pull back, breathless. “Dom, wait—”
“No talking,” he growls, his voice low and rough.
His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my bra. Despite my confusion, my body responds instantly, heat pooling between my legs.
“But we need—”
“I said,” he repeats, each word distinct and final, “no talking.”
There’s something in his eyes that stops me. A desperation I haven’t seen before. Almost a pain. Like he’s terrified of losing me.
His hands are at my skirt now, tugging the zipper down with an urgency that should alarm me but instead sends a fresh wave of arousal through me.
This is a terrible idea.
The world narrows to the heat of his palms branding my waist, guiding me backward until the couch bites into the backs of my thighs. His touch is like wildfire, untamed and devouring, as he strips me of my skirt. The fabric whispers to the floor.
Suddenly, I’m spun roughly, his grip a vise on my hips as he bends me over the leather armrest. My pulse hammers in my throat, in my wrists, there , where his breath tickles the nape of my neck.
“ Dom… ” His name fractures into a gasp as his palm cracks against my ass. Pain blooms, sharp and bright, followed by a molten ache that pools low in my belly.
“ What? ” he rasps, his voice frayed at the edges, his hand already hovering midair... a promise, a threat.
I turn my cheek to the cushion, teeth sinking into my lip to cage the whimper clawing up my throat. The second strike lands harder, a lightning bolt of sensation that arches my spine.
This time, I taste copper. His fingers glide over the throbbing flesh, a fleeting apology, before hooking into the lace panties at my hips. He yanks them down and I shudder, exposed, as his groan vibrates against my shoulder.
“You’re wet as fuck.” The words are gravelly, hungry, and I hear the rustle of fabric as he undoes his pants. “You want this even more than I do.”
Yes. The confession escapes as a plea, ragged and unashamed.
The sound of foil tearing tells me he’s putting on a condom. Always careful, even in his frenzy.
He sheathes himself with a guttural curse, then his hands anchor me in place, his fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise. No preamble, no mercy. One relentless thrust splits me open, his growl merging with my shattered cry.
“Fuck,” he grunts, holding still for just a moment before he starts moving, setting a punishing pace. His grip on my hips is unyielding as he pounds into me from behind.
It’s carnal, animalistic, so different from the almost reverent way he touched me last night. One of his hands slides up my back to grab my ponytail, wrapping it around his fist and pulling just hard enough to arch my spine.
“Dom,” I gasp, torn between pain and pleasure.
He doesn’t respond except to thrust harder, deeper. I can feel the tension in his body, the barely leashed aggression.
The stretch burns, perfect , each snap of his hips a collision of fury and need. I melt into the rhythm, friction igniting like a struck match, the room dissolving into panting and skin and the primal chorus of yes, yes, yes .
Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me, building the familiar pressure low in my belly. I brace myself against the couch, meeting his movements, chasing my own release.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, his voice rough. “I want to feel you cum around my cock.”
I slide one hand between my legs, finding my clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, and I can feel myself teetering on the edge.
“I’m close,” I warn him, my fingers working faster.
And then, inexplicably, he stops. Completely. Still buried inside me but motionless. The sudden absence of friction is jarring, pulling me back from the brink.
“Dom?” I try to glance over my shoulder, but his grip on my hair prevents it.
He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving against my back. For a moment we stay like that, frozen in a tableau of unfulfilled desire. Then he starts moving again, his rhythm different. It’s harder. Faster. More erratic.
Before I can adjust to the new pace, he shudders against me, a low groan escaping his throat as he cums. His grip on my hair loosens as he slumps forward, his forehead resting briefly between my shoulder blades.
What just happened?
He pulls out abruptly, leaving me empty and unsatisfied. I hear him moving away, disposing of the condom. I stay bent over the arm of the couch for a moment, trying to process what just occurred.
This wasn’t about pleasure. At least not mine. This was about control. About release. About something I can’t quite name.
Something’s wrong.
Slowly, I straighten, pulling up my panties, feeling oddly disconnected from my own body.
When I turn around, Dom is already zipping up his pants, his face unreadable. He doesn’t look at me as he stalks across the living room, his movements restless, caged.
“We should leave for dinner,” he says, his voice flat. “I’ll meet you downstairs in the car.”
“Okay,” I agree automatically, still trying to make sense of what happened. I want to ask him what that was, but he’s already gone, and I hear the front door open and close.
Jesus. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
I’m left standing in the living room, my clothes disheveled, my body humming with unresolved tension.
I gather my skirt from the floor, feeling oddly hollow. Last night, he held me in his arms and whispered things about connections that couldn’t be denied. Today, he fucked me like a stranger and walked away.
What changed?
The deal.
We signed the 1.5 billion dollar deal.
Maybe that’s all he really cared about after all?
I head to the bathroom, needing to collect myself before this mysterious business dinner. Under the harsh bathroom lights, I assess the damage. My hair is a mess, falling out of its neat ponytail. My lipstick is smeared. There’s a slight redness to my neck where his stubble scraped against my skin. I can see some of the hickeys he left from the night before, where the makeup has smeared off.
Suddenly I start to cry.
You’re an idiot, Tatiana Cole. A world-class, grade-A moron.
I was stupid enough to fall for him. After Rylan. After being left at the altar. I learned my lesson once. And yet I fell in love again.
Love is a pathetic fairy tale, a lie we tell ourselves to make the brutal reality of human connection seem less terrifying.
I wipe my cheeks, turn on the tap, and wash my face.
I scrub, and scrub, as if I can wash away the hurt and shame I’m feeling.
Maybe I shouldn’t go to this business dinner. Why the hell should I? What’s the point?
I sigh.
I’ll go. I’ll complete the terms of this stupid contract. Then tomorrow, I guess I’ll sign the papers. And we’ll be done.
No. You’re overreacting. He’s obviously just distracted by the coming business meeting. That’s it. That’s what’s wrong. Dom cares about you, he really does. He wouldn’t have said all those things last night if he didn’t. After this business dinner, we’ll finally have a nice, long talk, and we’ll figure things out.
Yes. That’s what we’ll do.
I shut off the water and dry my face on one of Dom’s ridiculously expensive towels. As I reapply my makeup, I try to focus on the task at hand rather than the knot of anxiety in my stomach.
In the car, the tension between us is almost palpable. He hasn’t said a word since I came inside. Not even the customary complement about how good I look.
Instead, he keeps glancing at his phone, his jaw tightening whenever he sees the screen, almost like he wants to call someone but can’t bring himself to do it.
Something is definitely wrong.
The man who just used my body like a personal stress ball is not the same one who whispered against my skin last night that I’d broken through every barrier he’d built.
Maybe he’s having second thoughts. Maybe he’s realized this whole thing was a mistake. Maybe he’s just ready for it to be over.
The thought shouldn’t hurt. This was never supposed to be real. It was a means to an end. His billion-dollar deal, my financial security. Clean, neat, transactional.
Except somewhere along the way, it became messier than that.
“Are you going to tell me what this dinner is really about?” I finally ask him.
A shadow crosses his face. “Just a final loose end for the resort project.”
“You’re lying,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Excuse me?”
“The deal is closed. You said it yourself. So what’s this dinner really about?”
For a moment, something vulnerable flickers in his eyes. A plea, almost. But then it’s gone, replaced by that same distant coolness. “It’s business, Tatiana. Let’s leave it at that.”
I want to push. Want to demand answers. But the hollowness of our earlier encounter still echoes between us, and I find myself nodding instead. “Fine. Business it is.”
The car glides through the evening traffic, the lights of the city blurring outside the window. Dom sits beside me, not touching me, his body angled slightly away as he stares out his own window.
I should be thinking about tomorrow. About the annulment. About what comes next. But all I can focus on is the man beside me and the growing certainty that whatever awaits us at dinner, it isn’t just business.
No.
It feels like an ending.