Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dmitri
Vittoria sits across from me at Celestine, the same table I reserved last time.
Her jaw is set in that particular way that means someone is about to regret crossing her. Dark eyes burn holes through the menu she hasn't opened. Her fingers tap against the white tablecloth in a rhythm that screams controlled fury.
Beautiful.
Elio stands near the entrance, far enough to give us privacy, close enough to be useless if I decided to do something about the tension crackling between us. The Sartoris sent only one guard tonight. Progress, perhaps. Or a test.
I lift my glass of wine. Take a slow sip. Wait.
Vittoria's eyes snap to mine.
"Is this how you approach women?" Her voice cuts through the ambient piano music. "Sending them... things and expecting them to just comply with whatever twisted fantasy you've cooked up?"
I set down my glass. "No."
Her eyebrows rise, surprised I answered so simply.
"This is actually the first time I've done anything like this." I keep my tone even, conversational. "But I'll do it again. For you."
Color rises in her cheeks.
"This wasn't part of our deal." She leans forward, lowering her voice so Elio can't hear. "Three months to prove you're tolerable, remember? Not three months for you to treat me like some kind of—"
"I respect your conditions." I cut her off, holding her gaze. "The timeline. Your right to walk away. But what I choose to give you, what I decide to do for you, that's mine to determine."
Vittoria laughs.
"You're not in charge here, Baganov." She sits back, crossing her arms. The movement does interesting things to her neckline that I force myself not to track. "You don't get to send me sex toys and act like you're doing me some kind of favor."
"Did you wear it?"
"No."
The word drops between us like a challenge. Vittoria's chin lifts, defiant. Those dark eyes dare me to push back.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. Close enough to catch the subtle floral scent of her perfume mixed with something warmer underneath. Something that's just her.
"You'll learn sooner or later to follow my orders, solnyshko." I keep my voice low, intimate. "I know you can be my good girl when you want to be."
Her lips part. A flush creeps up her neck.
"I'm not going to fall for any of this." She gestures vaguely between us. "The possessive comments, the gifts, the... whatever game you're playing. It won't work on me."
I study her face. The rapid pulse visible at the base of her throat. The way her fingers have stopped their angry tapping and now grip the edge of the tablecloth.
Liar.
"We'll see." I sit back, letting the tension stretch for a moment before shifting gears. "What would you like to eat tonight?"
Vittoria blinks at the sudden topic change. Her mouth opens, closes.
"You're... seriously asking me about food right now?"
"I'm seriously asking you about food." I gesture toward the untouched menu in front of her. "Unless you'd prefer to continue discussing your resistance to my charm. I'm happy either way."
She snatches up the menu. Scans it with more intensity than it deserves.
"The seared scallops," she says finally. "With the truffle risotto."
"Excellent choice."
I signal the waiter. Order her scallops, a ribeye for myself, another bottle of the Barolo. The waiter nods and retreats.
Vittoria watches him go, then turns back to me with narrowed eyes. Still suspicious. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Smart girl.
I settle back in my chair. Slip my hand casually into my jacket pocket. My fingers find the small remote I've been carrying all evening.
Vittoria reaches for her wine glass. Brings it to those perfect lips.
I push the button.
The effect is immediate. Devastating.
Her eyes roll back. The wine glass slips, nearly crashing to the table before she catches it with a white-knuckled grip. A strangled sound escapes her throat, half gasp, half moan, as wine splashes across her chin.
She grabs the edge of the table with both hands. Knuckles bone-white. Her chest heaves. Those dark eyes, when they finally focus, are glazed with shock and something far more interesting.
Fuck.
I've seen beautiful things in my life. Sunrises over Lake Michigan. My mother's garden in full bloom. The first snowfall of winter blanketing the estate.
None of it compares to watching Vittoria Sartori process that the crystal thing she put inside herself is a remote vibrator.
And that I control it.
Her mouth works silently. Cheeks flushed. Pupils blown so wide her eyes look almost black.
"Please—" The word comes out wrecked. Desperate. "Stop."
I release the button.
The vibration ceases. Vittoria slumps forward slightly, breathing hard. Her hair has fallen across her face, hiding her expression for a brief moment.
Then she looks up.
If looks could kill, I'd be bleeding out on this floor. Her eyes promise murder. Slow, painful, creative murder involving every piece of silverware on this table.
I've never been more aroused in my life.
"You—" She can barely form words. "You absolute bastard."
"You said you weren't wearing it." I tilt my head, keeping my expression neutral despite the heat pooling low in my gut. "You lied to me, solnyshko."
"I'm going to kill you." Her voice shakes. From fury or lingering arousal, I can't tell. Possibly both. "I'm going to find the sharpest knife in this restaurant and—"
"Keep your voice down." I nod toward Elio, who's watching us with concern from his post near the door. "Unless you want your guard to know why you're having trouble sitting still."
Vittoria's jaw clenches so hard I can hear her teeth grinding.
She dabs at the wine on her chin with a napkin. Smooths her hair back with trembling fingers. Straightens her spine with visible effort until she's the picture of composed elegance again.
Almost.
Vittoria
It was a mistake.
I knew it the moment I slid that thing inside me this afternoon, standing in my bathroom like an idiot, telling myself he won't know.
He can't see through fabric. He can't read minds.
I'd wear it just to prove I wasn't afraid of him, then take it out before dinner and laugh about how pathetic his little power play was.
Except I didn't take it out.
And now I'm sitting across from Dmitri Baganov in a Michelin-starred restaurant, my thighs clenched together so tight they're cramping, my pulse hammering between my legs, and my brain screaming why the fuck did you do this to yourself?
The vibrations stopped thirty seconds ago, but my body hasn't gotten the memo.
I'm still wound tight, still hovering on that edge he dragged me to with nothing but a press of his thumb on that goddamn remote.
If he'd kept it going another ten seconds—maybe five—I would have come right here.
At the table. With Elio sitting fifteen feet away.
Good girl.
His voice echoes in my skull.
I hate how much I want to hear it again.
"This is the last time," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. Small victory. "The last time you pull something like this. Ever."
Dmitri tilts his head. The remote has vanished but I can still see the outline of his smirk. Not quite a smile. Something darker. More satisfied.
"Is it?"
"I mean it." I reach for my water glass, grateful my hand doesn't shake. "Whatever game you think you're playing—"
"I'm not playing anything, solnyshko." He leans back in his chair, completely at ease. Like he didn't just edge me in public. Like this is a normal Monday. "You wore it. I rewarded you. Simple."
Rewarded.
Heat floods my cheeks. I want to throw my water in his face. I want to climb across this table and—
No. Absolutely not.
"I didn't wear it for you," I snap.
One eyebrow lifts. Just slightly. "Then why did you?"
The question hangs between us, and I don't have an answer. At least not one I'm willing to say out loud.
Because I was curious.
Because I've never owned one and I wanted to know what it felt like.
"I don't know," I admit.
Dmitri's expression doesn't change.
"Try again."
"Excuse me?"
He leans forward. "You know exactly why you wore it. You just don't want to admit it."
"And what's your theory?" I match his posture, refusing to back down. "Since you seem to know everything about me."
"You wore it because you want to take orders." His voice drops low. "You want to obey like the good girl you are."
My stomach flips. "That's not—"
"You want me to rule your body." He says it like fact. Like something so obvious it doesn't need debate. "You're just afraid to admit it."
"No." The word comes out too fast. Too defensive. "I wore it because—"
"Because I told you to."
I open my mouth. Close it. My brain scrambles for a response that doesn't prove his point.
Because you wanted to see if you'd follow his orders.
Because some part of you liked being told what to do.
"This was a test," Dmitri continues. His fingers trace the rim of his whiskey glass. Slow. Deliberate. "I didn't know you would actually wear it. I hoped. But I wasn't certain."
My throat tightens. "A test."
"Mm." That almost-smile again. "And you passed. Or failed, depending on perspective."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He leans back. Studies me like I'm code he's finally cracked.
"It means I was right about you, solnyshko. You're submissive." The word lands between us like a grenade. "You want someone to take control. To make the decisions. To tell you exactly what to do and when to do it."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I don't—that's not—"
"And I'm going to give you that." His voice goes rough. "I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt. Push you past every limit you think you have. Give you the best sex of your life." He pauses. "Every single time."
I stare at him.
My pulse pounds in my ears. Between my legs. Against my ribs.
Submissive.
The word echoes in my skull. I know what it means. I'm not an idiot. I've seen things online. Read articles. But I've never... I don't...
Do I?
The crystal plug still sits inside me. Heavy. Present. A constant reminder that I followed his order. That some part of me wanted to follow it.
But that doesn't mean—
"You're processing," Dmitri observes. Like he can read my thoughts scrolling across my face. "Good. Take your time."
"I need—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "I need a minute."
He nods once. "Of course."
I push back from the table. My legs feel unsteady as I stand, but I force them to work. Force myself to walk normally past the other tables, past the piano player.
The bathroom is marble and gold. Soft lighting. Fresh flowers in crystal vases. I lock myself in a stall and press my back against the cool door.
Breathe.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror opposite. Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. Kiss-swollen lips even though he hasn't touched me.
Submissive.
My hands shake as I grip the edge of the sink. The crystal inside me shifts with the movement, and I bite back a sound.
You wore it.
You didn't have to.
You could have thrown it away, blocked his number.
But you wore it.
I splash cold water on my face. Pat it dry with the softest towel I've ever touched. Stare at the woman in the mirror who looks like me but feels like a stranger.
I straighten my spine. Smooth down my dress. Check that my makeup hasn't smeared.