Vicious Obsession (Rozanov Bratva #1)

Chapter 1

AMARA

All of Ransome Rozanov’s shirts look good on him.

But this one is my favorite.

When he puts this one on, the Armani silk runs sleek and smooth over his broad chest, showcasing just how much time he spends in the gym. How many presses he is capable of doing with those pecs. How much ass he could kick if he really wanted to.

Not that he would. Ransome, my Ransome, is a gentleman.

Hence the Armani dress shirts. He has over fifty of them in his penthouse closet.

White for everyday wear. Endless shades of blues and reds for fancier occasions, occasions where he just might tempt the world with a smidge, a hint, a tease, a quarter of his red-hot smirk, which is something he doesn’t offer easily.

He saves the black for serious occasions.

Fuck me, he looks good in the black.

That’s probably why, in all of my… less than professional…

moments with Ransome, he is wearing the black.

It just does things to me. A wall of black silk as he stalks across the room, eyes zeroed in on me, jaw taut, no sign of that quarter-smirk in sight.

When he’s wearing the black, he means business and he gets what he wants.

No—takes what he wants. And it always, always ends with that black dress shirt on the floor, right next all of my clothes and my inhibitions.

Right now, though, it’s just me. No Ransome anywhere. I do have his shirt, though. As I wake up to the sound of Killer Queen set as my phone alarm, I press my nose to the shirt and inhale his scent.

Ahhh, perfection. As always.

This one happens to be white. I took the liberty of snagging it out of his closet the last time I was organizing his suits.

I chose the white to sleep in because it’s the sultriest. While it fits him perfectly, it’s a dress on me. I don’t mind at all—I like being swaddled in him, his fabric, his smell, his things.

That’s why I love wearing it to sleep. I can smell him all night long, even after he goes to work. I can imagine he never left the bed.

And when I stumble out of bed in the morning, making my way to the shower, phone and coffee mug in hand, the first thing I see is my own reflection in my body mirror, wearing his shirt.

Wearing him.

Owned by him.

Just like it ought to be.

But I’m running late already and it’s a busy day, so I can’t lie around in bed and dream of Ransome. My phone is buzzing with a cacophony of alerts, notifications, messages, emails and reminders, all of which need my attention.

So I shower quickly. Shampoo, condition, and—shoot, I’m out of my usual body wash.

But my sister Eliza left some of hers behind last time she stayed over here, so I squirt some of that in my hand instead.

Jasmine/Rose/Patchouli Blend, it says. It smells more floral than I’d usually go for, but that’s going to have to suffice. I’m already late, after all.

I shave in a hurry. I shave everything every day. Not one hair is out of place when I am around Ransome. He likes things neat. And I like when he’s satisfied.

It thrills me to satisfy him.

I pick up the dress shirt and hang it in my closet—away from my own clothes so the smell stays uniquely him. I wonder if he realizes I stole it. Ransome is a very detail-oriented man. He knows exactly how many white shirts he has in his closet and sooner or later, he’ll notice if he is missing one.

For that, I would be punished, no doubt…

The very thought of it makes my thighs tingle and my nipples perk up.

“Focus, Amara,” I scold myself as I slip into a black matching lace panty and bra set. I go for a black dress today, with a gold zipper. It’s medium thigh length, though the bunching in the back makes it appear a little shorter.

It also makes my ass look great, if I do say so myself.

I curl my hair because flouncy looks good with this dress. A little fun with the formal, right? I apply my eyelashes and the rest of my makeup. Just enough blush to make me look flushed. Just enough gloss to give me a pout.

I bite my lip a lot. It started as a nervous habit because the butterflies I get around Ransome are hard to distinguish from regular old anxiety. But when I noticed it makes his jaw tense in the corners, I started doing it more. I think it makes him think of me. Of what he can do to me.

It also makes me think of what he can do to me.

Of course, he doesn’t know that I notice that. And he would never admit to it. Men like Ransome never admit to things like that.

After that, I’m out the door. Lagato Coffee House is Ransome’s favorite, so I pick it up for him every single morning. Medium Americano with a splash of cream, no sugar, hot enough to burn my hand so it’s still piping when I get it to him.

It takes me six minutes to park my car, to walk through the lobby of Apex Energy, and to ride the elevator up to the sixtieth floor, where the doors open directly into the office.

I hurry to get things ready for the morning. His schedule is on his desk, his dry cleaning is in his side closet, and when I check it, I see that his coffee has cooled just enough not to burn his tongue.

Perfection. As always.

I know Ransome has entered the building before he even walks through the door. Everything gets a little hectic. People walk faster, work harder, and fumble around to make sure no one and nothing is out of place.

You’d have to be an idiot to get caught standing around when Ransome Rozanov makes his entrance.

I check the clock. 7:59 A.M. on the dot. The sound of his wing-tipped shoes on the marble floor rings out over the hubbub of other noises as he steps out of the elevator.

Right as the minute hand reaches eight o’clock, he walks in.

“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov,” I say with a cheeky smile. He likes that I call him that. The dominance of it, the theater, the racy little thrill of Mister. Like a private little game for us and us alone.

He’s wearing his black Tom Ford suit today. All black, actually, the black shirt underneath it, like he knew I was thinking of it this morning, like he’s teasing me, like he gets a racy little thrill of his own out of knowing what it does to me…

But he plays the game so well. That’s what makes it fun. He shows no sign of smiling as he sweeps past me without a word. He sits at his desk, though the door between us is still half-open, so I can see him if I twist around in my chair.

He goes through his ritual. Checks his schedule, writes a few notes in that broad, masculine handwriting of his. Sips his coffee. And then…

“I have a ten o clock with Dmitry Chadovich today. Add it,” Ransome instructs me curtly as he suddenly gets to his feet and heads back out of his office.

I nod and duck my head to hide my smile. “Yes, Mr. Rozanov. Right away.”

He is about to pass me when suddenly he stops right at my side. Without looking at me, he asks, “Is that a new perfume?”

“I… I’m not sure. Sort of, I think?” I’m a little flustered, honestly. He doesn’t usually break character like that in front of everyone else at the office. Unless it’s work-related, he rarely addresses me here at all. “What does it smell like?”

“Jasmine. Rose. Patchouli,” he answers. His voice is low. Gravelly. And it’s raking across my nerves in a way that makes my thighs clench together beneath the hem of my dress. “It’s nice.”

It’s nice. The two-word phrase is so simple. So seemingly impersonal.

And it completely unravels me.

I don’t know what to say to him, but I don’t have to figure that out, because before I can even begin to formulate an answer, he’s gone. I wait until he’s down the hall and around the corner before taking in a shaky breath.

God, the things that man does to me. And to think I get to see him every day.

Not because he is my boyfriend. He’s not.

Not because he’s my lover. He’s not.

Not because we’ve ever slept together, or kissed, or so much as held hands, aside from the lone handshake on the day he hired me.

Outside of my fantasies, we’ve never done a single thing that isn’t strictly HR-approved.

Because Ransome Rozanov is my boss.

I am obsessed with him.

And he barely knows I exist.