4. Sofia
4
SOFIA
I smooth down my black vintage Dior gown, scanning the glittering crowd at the Four Seasons’ annual charity gala. My skin prickles with awareness, searching for a tall figure with steel-gray eyes before I catch myself. Damn him. Three days of obsessing over Nikolai Ivanov’s arrogant presumption is too many.
A flash of red lips catches my eye, and relief floods me. Tash stands by a marble column, champagne in hand, looking every inch like the society queen in red Chanel.
“There’s my favorite art snob.” Her knowing smirk widens as I approach. “You look positively haunted, darling.”
“I need alcohol. Lots of it.” I snag a flute from a passing waiter.
“Mmm. Would this have anything to do with a certain Russian asking about you?”
I choke on my champagne. “He what?”
“Oh, please.” Tash links her arm through mine, steering us toward a quieter corner. “I’ve known you since Columbia. You only get that particular scowl when someone’s gotten under your skin. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill. Mr. Ivanov is just a client who doesn’t understand boundaries.”
“A gorgeous, wealthy client.” She arches one perfect eyebrow. “Who happens to be watching you right now.”
“Very funny.” I drain my champagne. “He’s probably plotting his next hostile takeover in some villain’s lair.”
“Villain’s lair? My, my. Someone’s been watching too many spy movies.” Tash’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Though I must say, the dangerous and mysterious vibe suits him.”
“You’re terrible.” I press my lips together. “And I’m not interested in men who think they can?—”
“Speaking of your non-interest...” Tash’s voice drops. “Your Russian is heading this way. Don’t turn around.”
“Stop it. I’m not falling for?—”
“Sofia.” The rich timber of his voice seeps into my bones.
Every muscle in my body locks. I force my features into practiced neutrality before turning.
Nikolai towers over us in a black tux that costs more than my monthly rent. His silver-streaked hair catches the light, and those steel eyes pin me in place.
“Mr. Ivanov,” I’m proud my voice is cool and disinterested. What a surprise .” I let the sarcasm linger on my last word.
“Is it?” One corner of his mouth lifts. “I believe I mentioned my foundation sponsors this event.”
Of course, he did. I’d forgotten that detail in my determination to avoid thinking about him.
“Natasha.” He inclines his head toward my friend. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise.” Tash’s smile is pure cat-with-cream. “I was just telling Sofia how fortunate we are to have such dedicated patrons of the arts.”
I shoot her a warning look, but she widens her eyes innocently and takes a deliberate step back.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she purrs. “I see someone I simply must speak with.”
Traitor.
“Dance with me.” It’s not a request, but I refuse to be steamrolled.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate.”
“Because I’m a client? Or because you’re afraid of what might happen?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I retort.
“No?” He steps closer, and the air thickens between us. “Then prove it.”
I tilt my chin up. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“One dance, Sofia.” He arches a brow. “Surely your professional ethics can survive three minutes of waltz?”
“My professional ethics aren’t the issue.”
“Then what is?” The tone of his voice deepens. “The way your pulse jumps when I’m near? Or perhaps it’s the way your breath catches? Or...” He leans in, his lips nearly brushing my ear. “It’s the way you can’t stop thinking about me?”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of what I want.” His hand extends toward me. “And right now, I want to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“Flattery won’t work on me.”
“Not flattery. Truth.” His eyes hold mine. “Dance with me, malishka .”
The Russian endearment slips past my defenses. Something in his gaze shifts and becomes almost gentle.
“Just one dance,” he murmurs. “Then you can return to pretending you don’t feel this.”
My hand lifts of its own accord, settling into his. His fingers close around mine, warm and strong.
“One dance,” I whisper. “That’s all.”
His smile is pure satisfaction as he leads me to the dance floor. “We’ll see.”
He pulls me closer than the proper waltz position demands. The string quartet starts a new melody, and we move together like we’ve danced a thousand times.
“You’re lighter on your feet than I expected for someone who quit ballet at sixteen,” Nikolai says.
My step falters. “How did you?—”
“The same way I know you prefer Earl Grey with honey, not sugar.” His thumb makes patterns on my back. “And that you spent last summer restoring a Vermeer in Amsterdam.”
“Have you been investigating me?” I ask.
“I make it my business to know everything about those I work with.” He guides me through a turn. “Though I admit, you’re far more fascinating than most.”
“That’s invasive,” I reply.
“Is it? Or is it prudent?” His breath fans my ear.
His fingers press into my hip, and I struggle to maintain composure. The anger at his invasion of privacy battles against the heat spreading through my core.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “Is it fear or desire, I wonder?”
“You can’t just—” My protest cuts off as his hand slides lower on my back.
“Can’t what? Tell you how your skin flushes when I touch you?” His voice drops to a gravelly purr. “How I’ve imagined you spread out on my bed, begging for my touch?”
My breath catches. “We’re in public.”
“Your body knows what you need.” My thigh slides possessively between hers. “Fighting hard to maintain that facade while you’re aching to submit.”
“Stop.” It comes out as more of a whimper.
“Stop fighting what you need.” My mouth maps the vulnerable curve where the neck meets the shoulder. “You want me to tell you exactly what I will do to you. How I’ll bind those delicate wrists above your head. Make you beg. Make you call me Daddy while I?—”
“Mr. Ivanov,” I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulder.
“Nikolai,” he corrects. “Or Daddy. Your choice, malishka .”
This is insane. We’re surrounded by Boston’s elite, and he’s making me wet with arousal using just his words.
“You’re blushing so prettily.” His hand spans my lower back, fingertips teasing the curve of my ass. “Imagining it, aren’t you? How good you’ll look wearing nothing but rope and my marks.”
I bite my cheek to hold back a moan. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re soaked, I bet.” He pulls me tighter against his thigh. “What I’d do to feel that pretty little cunt of yours dripping for me.”
The music shifts, breaking the spell of his words. Reality crashes back—I’m in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum, grinding against one of Boston’s boldest men while half the city’s elite watches.
I wrench away from him, ignoring his darkening expression. “Excuse me.”
I flee, weaving through clusters of champagne-sipping socialites. I need air, space, and distance from his intoxicating presence.
A service corridor beckons. A sign indicates it is staff only, but I don’t care. The gala’s sounds fade as I push through the door, my hands trembling.
Strong fingers close around my arm, spinning me around. Nikolai crowds me against the wall, one hand planted beside my head.
“That was very rude, malishka .” His voice makes me shiver. “Running away like a frightened little girl.”
“Let me go,” I demand.
“No.” He grips my chin. “You need to learn something important. You don’t turn your back on me. Ever.”
“Or what?” I challenge, though my heart pounds.
“Or I’ll have to teach you proper manners. And trust me, Sofia...” He presses closer until every hard line of him presses against me. “My lessons can be very thorough.”
“You don’t have any control over me.”
“Not yet.” His grip tightens. “But you’ll learn. One way or another.”
His lips hover over mine, a whisper of contact that sets every nerve ending on fire. I lean forward, desperate to close that final gap—but he pulls back, a dark satisfaction in his eyes.
“Have a good evening.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me trembling against the wall. Rage and frustration war with the ache between my thighs. How dare he? The bastard played me like a violin and just walked away.
I smooth my dress with shaking hands and force myself to breathe. My reflection in a nearby mirror shows flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. God, I appear thoroughly debauched, and he barely touched me.
Back in the main hall, I make a beeline for the bar. A flash of red catches my eye as Tash appears at my side.
“Holy shit.” She grabs my arm. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been—” Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, did you and Ivanov...?”
“No. Nothing happened.” I signal the bartender. “Vodka martini. Double.”
“Nothing?” Tash’s perfectly arched eyebrow calls bullshit. “Honey, your lipstick is smudged, and you’ve got that ‘I need to change my panties’ walk.”
“Tash!” I hiss, glancing around.
“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. The sexual tension between you two was thick enough to cut with a knife.” She leans closer. “Tell me everything. Now.”
“He’s an arrogant, controlling...” I drink down half my martini. “He thinks he can just... and then he...”
“Complete sentences would be helpful, darling.”
“He backed me into a wall and then just left!” The words burst out in a flurry.
“Left you hot and bothered, you mean.” Tash’s red lips curve into a knowing smile. “From that flush, I’d say mission accomplished.”
“You’re the worst friend ever,” I groan, but I can’t help smiling at her gleeful expression. “You abandoned me to that... that...”
“Devastatingly handsome billionaire who clearly wants to ravish you?” Tash’s eyes dance with mischief. “I know, I’m terrible. However, will you forgive me?”
“Never.” I drain my martini. “I’m still mad at you.”
“No, you’re not.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “You love me. And honestly? That was the most excitement this stuffy gala’s seen in years.”
I press my cool glass against my still-flushed cheek. “I hate that you know me so well.”
“Listen.” Her tone shifts, genuine concern replacing the teasing. “You look like you could use an escape. Want to get out of here? We could grab real drinks at that little wine bar you love. The one with the amazing cheese plate?”
“God, yes.” Relief floods through me. “Please get me out of here before I do something stupid. Like hunt him down and...” I catch myself.
“And?”
“Never mind. Let’s go.” I loop my arm through hers. “You’re buying, though, as penance for earlier.”
“Fair enough.” Tash grabs her clutch. “Though I make no promises about behaving better in the future. Someone has to keep your life interesting.”
The cool night air hits my face as Tash and I exit the museum’s grand doors. My skin still burns where Nikolai touched me, and I fight the urge to look over my shoulder.
“Your car or mine?” Tash digs through her clutch for her phone.
“Definitely yours. I took a car service.” The idea of being alone right now makes my stomach twist.
A prickle runs down my spine—that distinct sensation of being watched. I scan the crowd of departing guests but see no sign of his imposing figure.
“God, I made such a fool of myself in there.” I press my palms to my heated cheeks. “Everyone probably saw us on that dance floor.”
“Please.” Tash waves down her driver. “Half those stuffy socialites were probably taking notes. It’s about time someone livened up one of these events.”
But my mind replays every moment—how I melted against him, the way I practically ground against his thigh like some desperate...
“Stop that.” Tash’s sharp tone cuts through my spiral. “I can hear you overthinking from here.”
“You didn’t see how I acted.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I completely lost control.”
That sense of being observed intensifies. My eyes dart to the museum’s dark windows, the shadows between parked cars, the security cameras mounted discreetly above.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” Tash slides into her waiting town car, patting the seat beside her. “When’s the last time you actually experienced something real?”
I slip in beside her, grateful for the tinted windows hiding me from imagined observers. But even as we pull out of the parking lot, I can’t shake the sensation of being under surveillance. My fingers twist in my lap as I remember how many influential people witnessed my display.
“Hey.” Tash squeezes my hand. “Whatever you’re thinking right now? Stop it. You’re allowed to be human.”
But am I? After letting Nikolai Ivanov crack my perfect facade in front of everyone who matters in this city, I’m not so sure.