Chapter Seven
Valentina
The leather of the steering wheel feels sticky under my palms, even with the air conditioning blasting a freezing draft into my face. My skin feels tight. Itches. Everywhere. Especially between my legs, it’s a throbbing ache.
What the fuck did Viktor do to me?
When the pressure of running an empire got too high, I’d hit up one of three contacts in my phone, and it would be done before morning. Mediocre. That’s what sex is—overrated.
But Viktor is messing with my head. I can't remember the last time I was this confused about the way my own body reacted to someone, or why I made a decision and couldn't pinpoint the exact ROI. Why, Valentina? What in the fuck is wrong with you?
By noon, I’m sitting at the head of the conference table to review an acquisition. The regional directors are talking about shipping lanes and customs delays in Cyprus, but their voices are like insects buzzing against a windowpane.
I can’t focus. My mind keeps slipping back to Viktor, the taste of cold sugar, and the heat of his tongue on my neck.
What would he look like without those grey sweatpants on?
He’s a beast. He’s probably huge—so thick I’d struggle to even take him.
The thought makes heat shoot straight down my spine, making me shift uncomfortably in my chair.
I can almost imagine the way his massive hands would grip my hips.
He could break me, but last night, his voice had sounded so desperate. So gentle.
But then my pride stings.
In the end, I paid for him. If he puts his hands on me, if he opens his mouth for me, it’s because a piece of paper says he has to.
Sex isn't something that should be forced. What if he’s only doing this because he thinks he’s supposed to?
Because he thinks his survival depends on keeping my bed warm?
I’m cold. I’m ruthless. I’m my father’s daughter. But I’m not that much of a monster.
"—and if we push the timeline to Q2, we might save six percent on the import tariffs," the director to my left says.
I can feel the collar of my silk blouse constricting against my throat, choking me.
"We're done for today," I say, cutting him off mid-sentence.
"Ms. Blackwood?" the director asks, frowning. "We haven't touched the compliance clauses."
"Later," I snap, pushing my chair back. "I have an off-site matter to handle. Have the revised deck on my desk by Monday morning."
Bitchy move. I never claimed not to be a bitch, though.
I stand up, adjusting the high, stiff cuff around my neck.
The drive back to the penthouse feels like it takes forever. I need to get home, or else I’ll suffocate. When I finally make it, Elias looks surprised to see me before five o'clock. "Welcome back, Valentina. Would you like to start dinner early tonight?"
"No, I’m not hungry," I sigh, rubbing the area between my brows. "But make something for Viktor. He might be too shy to ask you for food."
"Of course," Elias says with a knowing nod, slipping back into the kitchen.
I march straight into the kitchen to pull a fresh pint of chocolate fudge ice cream from the freezer. Today is a guilt-free day. I am not going to think.
I walk into the living room, kicking off my five-inch heels carelessly.
I reach behind my back and slide the zipper of my pencil skirt down.
I'm left in just my silk blouse and a lace thong. There’s nobody here to see me.
I sink onto the velvet sofa, pull a cashmere throw over my bare legs, and turn on some mind-numbing reality TV show.
For thirty minutes, I rot my brain away.
Then, the cushions shift.
A massive weight settles opposite me. I look over to find that Viktor has already sat next to me. In his hands is his own full pint of vanilla bean ice cream.
"Can I?" he asks, gesturing slightly to the empty space between us on the couch.
I let out a slow breath. "You’re my roommate for the next three months, Viktor. Sit wherever you want."
"Elias said this flavor is better," he mumbles, holding up his pint. He digs his spoon into the frozen cream, taking a bite. "He is wrong. Yours looks better."
"Chocolate is always better," I reply, tracing the edge of my spoon against the carton.
A twitch hooks the corner of his mouth. After that, we sit in a thick silence, the trashy dialogue from the television making it less awkward.
Though it’s a bit uncomfortable, as I watch the small spoon in his scarred hands, I hate to admit it to myself—I’m enjoying his company.
"How was work?" Viktor tries to rekindle the conversation.
"The usual."
He murmurs something I don’t catch. The silence returns. I was never the most social person—I hate small talk.
Viktor sets his carton down on his knee. "I am going to be in your house for three months, Valentina. Wouldn't you like to know me?"
Confrontational. He’s not as meek as he was when he first came here, and I feel a little pride at the fact.
"Fine. Favorite food?"
"Meat," he says instantly.
"Fair. Favorite movie?"
He pauses. "I have not seen many. But... maybe Titanic. I saw it once a long time ago. The music was good."
I raise an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at my lips. "A romantic. I wouldn't have guessed."
"It is a story about a big boat that sinks," he says, his face completely serious. "I liked the boat."
I let out a laugh, propping one leg up on the cushions. "Alright, last one. What’s your favorite color?"
He doesn't answer right away.
Viktor looks completely transfixed. His eyes are narrowed and glued to a specific spot on the couch.
I follow his gaze down. When I shifted my weight, the cashmere throw slipped. My red lace thong is in full display against the pale skin of my hip and lower back.
He answers like he's in a trance. "Red."
"Viktor!" I snap, my face instantly flushing hot as I instinctively reach to yank the throw back over myself.
He flinches slightly, pulling his gaze up to meet mine. There’s a dark hunger in him that makes the air feel hot enough to melt the ice cream in our hands.
"I am sorry, Valentina," he rasps. "I know you are not into this... or not into me. But I cannot seem to sit another second without wanting to devour you whole."
Before I can even process the words, he moves. For a man his size, he is terrifyingly fast. He sets his carton on the floor and leans over the space between us.
He doesn't ask. He just takes.
He presses a bruising kiss right against the bare skin of my hip. His stubble scrapes against my skin. Good god, it’s like I’m on fire. Then he drops another hot kiss right above the crack of my backside, his breath scorching through the red lace.
He pulls back abruptly. My eyes dart down; beneath the grey sweatpants, he is sporting a literal third leg.
"I am going to excuse myself, or I’m scared I won’t be able to stop," he growls.
He stands up and walks out, leaving a mess behind him.
I’m the mess. My body is literally incinerating from the inside out.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.