14. Chapter 14
14
Bella
Y ou know that moment in horror movies where the protagonist realizes they're not alone?
Yeah, this is worse. Way worse. Because I'm sprawled out on some stranger's ridiculously expensive sheets, high as a kite, with my green monster buzzing away between my legs like it's having a party of its own.
And he's here.
The man from the portrait. In the flesh. Sitting in that leather chair like it's his personal throne, looking even more devastating than his painted version. More dangerous. More real.
My brain short-circuits, trying to process reality through a haze of weed and post-orgasmic bliss. The first coherent thought that manages to break through? Holy mother of fuck, his jawline could cut glass.
The second thought? I just masturbated to his portrait. While he watched.
The third? That traitorous device hasn't stopped its relentless humming.
"Interesting choice of toy," he drawls, voice thick with that Russian accent I'd been fantasizing about. His eyes, darker than sin itself, flick between my face and the still-buzzing dildo. "Green is not typically associated with... pleasure."
I try to move, to do something—anything—other than lay here like a deer caught in very sexy headlights. But in my panic, I jerk too hard. The dildo, slick from my previous activities, shoots out like a champagne cork.
And hits him square in the chest.
The buzzing continues as it rolls down his pristinely tailored suit, leaving a wet trail before landing in his lap. Still vibrating. Still very much covered in evidence of what I'd been doing.
Ground, if you're going to swallow me whole, now would be the perfect time.
He picks up the toy, examining it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for bomb disposal. The corner of his mouth twitches. "I believe this belongs to you."
"I..." Words fail me. Completely. Because what do you say when a Greek god in a three-piece suit is holding your vibrator? A vibrator that just assaulted him after you broke into his house and got off to his portrait?
His eyes rake over my naked body, and I suddenly remember I'm still spread out like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I grab for the sheets, but they're tangled around my ankles. Because of course they are.
"Looking for these?" He reaches down, gathering the sheets with one hand while still holding my vibrator in the other. The bastard's enjoying this. I can see it in the way his lips curve into a predatory smile.
"I can explain," I blurt out, even though I absolutely cannot explain any of this.
"Please do." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, still holding my green monster like it's Exhibit A in the most mortifying court case ever. "Start with why you're in my bed. Then perhaps we can discuss your... creative use of my portrait."
The way he says 'creative' makes my insides clench. Which is completely inappropriate given the situation, but try telling that to my libido.
"Would you believe I'm the cleaning lady?"
"With this?" He holds up the vibrator, which chooses that exact moment to run out of batteries and die with a sad little whir.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Because really, what else can you do when you're naked in some mysterious Russian tycoon's bed with your dead dildo in his hands? The man screams old money—everything from his custom suit to his thousand-dollar watch to the way he carries himself like he owns not just this mansion, but probably half the city. Tech billionaire? Real estate mogul? Whatever he is, he's definitely way above my pay grade.
His eyes darken. "Something funny, malyshka ?"
"Just... processing the absurdity of my life choices," I manage to squeak out. "Also, I'm pretty sure I'm still high."
He stands suddenly, all six-foot-something of him unfolding like a panther rising to strike. My green monster disappears into his pocket—and isn't that a sentence I never thought I'd think—as he stalks toward the bed.
"Then allow me to help clear your head." His voice drops an octave, sending shivers down my spine. "We have much to discuss about breaking and entering. And proper portrait etiquette."
Proper portrait etiquette. Is he... is he fucking with me?
But before I can process that thought, he's there, looming over me like every dark fantasy I've ever had come to life. And as his hand reaches out to trace my jawline, I realize something terrifying:
The portrait didn't do him justice at all. My body screams at me to move, to scramble away, to do something —but I'm frozen, caught in his gravitational pull like a helpless meteor about to crash and burn. And burn I do.
His fingertips leave a trail of fire along my jaw, and my brain decides this is the perfect moment to shut down completely. The mattress dips as he sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that his cologne—something expensive and sinfully masculine—makes my head spin.
"I'm waiting." The words roll off his tongue like dark honey.
Right. Words. I should use those.
I scramble to sit up, which turns into an awkward dance of trying to cover both my breasts and lady bits with not nearly enough hands. His eyes drop to my chest, and— did this man's eyebrows just quirk in amusement?
"I—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. "I wasn't actually trying to break in. Well, technically I did break in, but I had a really good reason that probably won't sound good at all when I say it out loud, but—"
"You're rambling."
"Because I'm naked!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "And you're... you're looking at me."
"Would you prefer I close my eyes while you explain why you're in my bed?"
"I'd prefer pants." I spot my clothes on the floor, just out of reach. "Or death. Death would work too."
He doesn't move. Just stands there, towering over me, radiating heat and danger and something else that makes my insides twist with want. Focus, Bella. Focus.
"I'm a photographer," I blurt out. "I was supposed to shoot the Morrison estate next door, but my car broke down, and then it started raining, and there was thunder, and my phone had no signal, and your gate was open, and—" I pause for breath. "—and I really need to stop talking."
"And the toy?" His hand slides into his pocket where my green monster disappeared. "Was that part of the photography equipment?"
My face burns hotter. "It's my birthday."
"Your birthday," he repeats slowly.
"Yes. I bought it as a... birthday present. To myself. Because I'm pathetically single and apparently make terrible life choices. Like breaking into isolated mansions I thought were abandoned and—" I snap my mouth shut. Shit.
He still doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But something in his face shifts.
Not anger. Not yet. Just... surprise. A flash of it. Like even he didn’t expect that answer.
I nod slowly. “Yep. Just me, a joint from my best friend, and a fantasy about pretending this place was mine for a few hours.”
A beat of silence.
“So let me get this straight,” he says, finally. “You broke into a house in the middle of nowhere… because you were bored and lonely?”
“Well when you say it like that …”
“There is no version where that doesn’t sound insane.”
Fair.
A low chuckle escapes him, the sound doing illegal things to my body. "Try again, malyshka. "
"Look, I'm a photographer. I notice things. Like the security setup that I definitely should have noticed before breaking in. And the way you move, like you're always ready for... something. And—" I gesture vaguely at him with one hand before quickly bringing it back to cover my breast. "—all of this ."
"All of what?" He leans closer, and sweet baby Jesus , his cologne should be illegal.
“The whole brooding-billionaire-who-definitely-knows-where-to-hide-a-body vibe. ”
God, stop talking, Bella.
"Which I'm now realizing I probably shouldn't mention while I'm naked and at your mercy and oh god, I really need to shut up."
He takes a few steps, and I instinctively pull my knees closer to my chest. But he moves past me to where my bag sits on a chair. My heart stops as he pulls out my wallet.
“Isabella Marquez,” he reads, his accent caressing each syllable. “Born February 14th, 1996.” Something falls from my wallet—a business card. His eyes narrow as he picks it up, and my stomach drops. “Twenty-nine years old. Single.” His lips curve into a dangerous smile as he reads the card. “Real Estate Agent at Elite Properties.” He looks up, eyes glittering. “Not a photographer after all, malyshka. Now, why would you lie about that?”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Why did I lie? Nothing in my brain makes sense anymore. Not the lie, not breaking in, not the fact that I’m sitting here naked in a stranger’s bed while he holds my dignity hostage.
Finally, I manage to snag the sheet and wrap it around myself, though it feels like closing the barn door after the horse has bolted.
“I don’t… I don’t know,” I whisper, and it’s the truth. “I don’t know why I’m even here.”
He slides my wallet into his pocket before stalking back toward me. Every step is fluid, predatory grace, muscles moving beneath his tailored suit like a panther in Armani. He’s built like someone who belongs on a movie screen, not in real life—all broad shoulders and narrow hips and sweet baby Jesus, those thighs.
My tongue darts out to wet my suddenly dry lips before I can stop it.
Stop objectifying the scary mafia man, Bella. This isn’t “Magic Mike XXL.”
“Isabella Marquez,” he practically purrs my name, his voice darker than aged whiskey and twice as intoxicating. He towers over me, close enough that I can see a tiny scar above his left eyebrow. “You broke into my home, used my shower, pleasured yourself to my portrait, and lied about your occupation.” His head tilts slightly. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call the police.”
“Because it’s my birthday?” I offer weakly.
Thunder crashes outside the window, making me jump. His eyes flick to the storm before returning to me, that dangerous glint still present.
“Get dressed, malyshka . My man will meet you at the front gate in twenty minutes.” He pauses, lightning illuminating his silhouette. “Try not to get into any more… situations before then.”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes raking over me in a way that makes my skin tingle.
He’s gone before I can process what just happened, leaving me wrapped in Egyptian cotton and confusion. It isn’t until I’m gathering my clothes that I realize:
He kept my business card. My wallet.
And my green monster.