Chapter Three
Juliet
Vitaly left his window unlocked.
Again.
He wants me to come inside.
Leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.
Begging me to follow.
Even so, he should really be more careful.
Especially with women like Oksana circling.
But he’s not worried, is he?
Not about her.
Not about me.
Yet.
It doesn’t matter.
Elliot will unravel her. Find her weak spot, her dirty little secrets.
Then I’ll know exactly how to slice her out of his life.
No one shouts at my men.
Not in public.
Not in his bakery, where the whole world can see.
I don’t care if she sponsored him or not.
Who does that?
Psychos, that’s who.
“Don’t worry,” I purr, slipping through the window like it’s a front door. “I’ll take care of you now, darling.”
His scent hits me the second I land.
Fresh coffee. Rising dough.
That subtle, dark cologne.
He hasn’t been gone long.
His heat is still here.
Pressed into the cushions.
Bleeding through the walls.
We’re sharing air.
Almost.
Ghosting each other by minutes.
Like we’re already living together.
The kitchen is… meticulous.
Knives lined up like soldiers. No stray crumbs.
Maybe he’s just a baker after all.
My baker.
A giant Russian cream puff who could break me in half.
Or feed me until I can’t walk.
I prowl through the living room. Find the perfect little nook by the bookshelf.
Camera one, planted.
Because I like to watch.
Because I need to know everything.
If he’s all sugar, Oksana needs to be handled, quick, quiet, final.
But if there’s something sharper under the frosting, well… I’ll just have to be sharper still.
The kitchen camera gets pride of place, center stage, right over the pantry.
I want to see what he eats when no one’s watching.
What he whispers to the bread at midnight.
“Who are you really, my love?” I breathe, letting the cold from the fridge spill over my skin as I help myself.
A glass of milk.
A still-warm pirozhki.
I eat his food, standing in his kitchen.
Like I’ve always belonged here.
Like this is my right.
Because it is.
He’s mine.
Callum said Oksana was all bones and bite.
Tall, brittle, sharp-edged.
“That’s not what you want, is it?” I whisper to the empty house. “Not when you could have something soft.”
I wash my glass, leave no trace.
He deserves a woman who knows how to take care of things.
The office is next.
Camera angled to catch every word he writes, every secret he tries to keep.
I want to read over his shoulder.
I want to crawl inside his head.
Two left.
The bedroom, so I can watch him dreaming of me.
And the bathroom.
Because research doesn’t have to be boring.
And the fastest way to break a man is to know exactly how he falls apart alone.
And if his cock is subpar?
I need to know now.
We’re investing a lot in this man.
The last thing I’m willing to tolerate is disappointment.
The ghost of his morning shower is still clinging to the air.
Thick. Humid.
Laced with the memory of his body.
My whole body goes molten.
The mirror’s still fogged up.
Streaked with marks from his giant hands.
His toothbrush?
A battered blue thing.
Cheap. Chewed at one end.
Rests by the sink.
I trail my finger along the porcelain.
The soap dish.
The edge of his razor.
Let my hunger grow.
My hand drifts to the shower door.
His towel hangs heavy.
Still damp.
Daring me to press it to my face and breathe him in.
I’m stripping before I realize it.
Pink skirt.
White top.
Panties tossed carelessly on the tiles.
I want his scent all over me.
Want to drown in him.
Mark myself with the last thing he touched.
The sweat he left behind.
The shower hisses to life.
Scalding hot.
Steam pours out, swallowing me whole.
I step in.
The heat slams into me.
I moan.
Want tearing through me.
I grab his bar of soap.
Big. Half-melted.
Cedar and danger.
Something that screams man.
My mouth waters.
I drag it down my throat.
Over my breasts.
My belly.
Between my legs.
I want to reek of him.
Want to walk out of here smelling like I just crawled out of his bed.
Like I belong to him.
And then I see the washcloth.
Grey. Rough.
Still damp.
Still full of soap and sweat.
And maybe, God, please.
Something dirtier.
I bite my lip.
Pulse pounding in my ears.
My fingers shake as I snatch it up.
Press it to my face.
Inhale so deep it burns.
His.
This filthy little thing has been everywhere.
Maybe wrapped around his cock.
Maybe wiping his chest.
Maybe shoved between his legs while he thought about fucking.
I slide it down my neck.
Across my nipples.
Over my stomach.
I press it between my thighs.
Grind.
Whimper like I’m starving.
My other hand dives between my legs.
Two fingers.
Deep and fast.
Fucking myself while I ride his dirty washcloth.
All my hunger pours out in ragged breaths.
I imagine him behind me.
Big. Rough.
Yanking my hair.
Forcing me to look at myself in the mirror while he wrecks me.
Eyes on my mouth.
On my cunt.
On the mess he made.
I grind harder.
Hips snapping.
Breath fogging the glass.
My moans are ugly. Wild.
The kind you only make when you’re alone or too far gone to care.
“Fuck, Vitaly,” I gasp.
My voice is shredded.
“Bet you’d lose your mind if you saw me like this.”
My breath catches.
“Bet you’d love knowing I’m in here, fucking myself with your dirty fucking towel.”
I moan.
“Oh, God.”
I rub the cloth over my clit, desperate for friction.
For the bite of rough fabric.
For the ghost of his hand.
My eyes close.
I picture him stroking his cock.
Big. Thick.
Sweat dripping down his abs.
Jaw clenched tight.
“Want you to use this on me,” I say, shoving my fingers deeper.
My whole body shakes.
“Want you to wipe me down after you fuck me raw.”
I gasp.
“Want you to ruin me.”
I come so hard my knees give.
Collapse against the tile.
The washcloth clutched in my fist.
My body still sparking.
When I can stand, I rinse off.
Hands shaking.
Wrap myself in his still-damp towel.
Close my eyes again.
I imagine him carrying me to his bed.
Feeding me pastries.
Licking the sugar off my skin before round two.
I wring out the cloth just a little.
Enough to leave him in it.
To keep that edge of filth.
Then I tuck it into my bag.
Snatch a fresh washcloth, drag it slow between my legs, and leave it in the shower.
Let him wash himself with me tonight.
The bathroom’s a steamy cathedral now.
Fog beads on every tile.
The mirror’s a ghost-sheet of condensation.
I towel off.
Hair dripping.
Body humming with that post-orgasmic glow that leaves me feeling mean and triumphant.
For a second, I stand in front of his mirror.
Naked and bright with victory.
My reflection a wild animal.
Eyes feral.
Lips bitten red.
I press a fingertip to the glass.
Drag it down in a slow, lazy arc.
A heart blooms out of the fog.
Huge. Brazen.
Right in the center where he’ll see it next time the steam rises.
Not a careful little doodle, but something big enough to claim territory.
Just for fun I add a tiny arrow through the center.
A flourish.
He deserves that.
And then I press my lips, full and wet, above the heart.
The print is perfect.
Unmistakable.
My claim.
When he steps in tomorrow and the mirror fogs, my graffiti will come alive in the haze.
He’ll feel it.
The touch, the proof.
Someone was here.
Someone wants him.
Someone’s watching.
And knows exactly how to make him feel worshipped and wanted.
I pause to admire the chaos.
Hips cocked.
Head tilted.
Eyes glinting in the glass.
“You’re going to love me,” I whisper.
My fingers linger on the glass a moment longer.
Part of me wishes he’d catch me like this.
Naked. Unguarded.
His to ruin.
I slip back into my clothes.
Pink skirt smoothed.
Panties straightened.
And leave.
Like I was never here at all.
Except for the heart.
The kiss.
The proof.
My secret.
Our secret.
For now.