Chapter 10
ASTRID
“Say it,” he growls, lips trailing down my throat, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp. His mouth is on my neck again, hot and ravenous.
“I want you,” I breathe, arching under him. “God, I want you.”
His hand wraps around my thigh, pulling it up to his side. The other fists in my hair as he drives into me again, harder this time, deeper.
“Is this what you were thinking about all those weeks?” he murmurs against my skin. “Back in Paris? When you touched yourself at night… was it me you thought of?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “It was always you.”
He groans, low and dark, and I feel it vibrate straight through my core. Every thrust pushes me closer to the edge, his name tumbling from my lips like a prayer.
I come undone with a cry, clenching around him as he follows, hips jerking, curses falling in Russian as he spills inside, deep and warm. He collapses beside me, both of us panting, slick with sweat.
The room is quiet now, only the sound of our breathing and the faint whir of the ceiling fan overhead fills the space.
I glance down, catching the rise and fall of his chest. A sheen of sweat glistens along his collarbone. One arm lies draped across the sheets.
My heart starts to race again, but for a different reason this time.
“Yuri,” I say, voice quiet. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
He turns his head toward me, unreadable. His gray eyes catch the low light in the room. “What is it?”
I sit up a little, pulling the sheet with me. “I’m pregnant.”
Silence. Heavy. Dense. Absolute.
His face is a mask. No flicker of emotion. No shift in his body language. Just that same, icy stillness I felt the first time I saw him in the office.
“Say something,” I whisper. “Yuri, please.”
Nothing.
My chest tightens. I reach out, placing a trembling hand on his arm.
“You can yell. Be mad. Just react. I can’t take this silence. Please say something.”
But he’s gone. Not just emotionally but physically. The sheets beside me are cool. Undisturbed. No Yuri. No warmth. No scent. Like he was never there at all.
I jolt upright with a sharp inhale, lungs dragging in cool air. I’m alone in my bed, in my apartment. My heart’s pounding and my sheets are twisted.
It was a dream. All of it. Just a dream.
I lie back against the pillows, heart still thudding like I’d just run a marathon. The room is dim and still. Just the hum of a fan and the echo of a dream that felt too real.
I sigh and drag a hand down my face. The reaction in the dream wasn’t his—couldn’t be. But the pregnancy?
That part is real.
I press my palm against my belly. Still flat. But no longer empty.
I need to make a doctor’s appointment. Stop dragging my feet. I’ve been floating in this in-between space for too long. Dreaming, wondering, hiding behind spreadsheets and secrets.
I force myself out of bed and head to the bathroom. The tile is cold beneath my feet, a shock that helps jolt me fully awake.
I turn the water in the shower until it’s hot enough to sting, letting it hit my shoulders as the room steams up like a sauna. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the wall.
And like it always does, the fantasy creeps back in.
I imagine him stepping in behind me, steam clinging to the contours of his body. Water beads along his chest, sliding down his sculpted abs, his stiff cock.
His hands find my hips, firm and commanding, pulling me back into his chest, my ass pressing into his hardness. He kisses the side of my neck, his voice a low growl in my ear.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
I shiver.
“Enough,” I mutter to myself.
It’s getting out of hand. The dreams, the daydreams, the heat curling low in my belly every time I think about him.
This is not good.
I rinse off and step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel. When I reach into my drawer for underwear, I gaze at what I’ve chosen—a deep plum lace set. The bra lifts just enough, the panties sit snug on my hips—sexy without trying too hard.
I layer a white silk blouse over it, tuck it into tailored navy slacks, and add a slim belt with gold accents. Low nude heels and small hoops finish the look—professional, polished, in control.
Or at least pretending to be.
I grab my bag, keys, and phone then head out the door, my chest high, spine straight. Because today, I am Astrid Jones. And nobody knows what I’m hiding.
The air is brisk when I step outside, the early sun glinting off the rows of brick walkups lining the street. I live in Logan Square—trendy, a little grungy—with a mix of vintage bookstores, hipster cafes, and a population that seems permanently dressed for an indie film shoot.
I make a quick stop at my usual corner coffee shop. Shauna, a barista with a green septum ring, greets me by name and hands over my order—black coffee, decaf, no sugar. I thank her, then walk the block to the Blue Line and hop the El toward the Loop.
The train rocks as it snakes through the city, and I try not to overthink too much.
About the dreams. About him. About the way my body still aches with phantom memory.
I focus on the skyline coming into view, the glass-and-steel towers that somehow always manage to look awe-inspiring yet so cold at the same time.
The elevator ride up to Ivanov Holdings is smooth and eerily quiet. My reflection in the mirrored walls is all clean lines and poise, but inside, I’m buzzing.
Yuri asked me to come straight to his office this morning. Not HR. Not a team lead.
His office.
It’s strange. Most CFOs don’t micromanage their new hires. Does he want to work directly with me?
Or… under me?
Or maybe I could work on top of him.
I laugh a little, nearly spilling my coffee.
Seriously, Astrid. Get it together.
The elevator dings. I step onto the floor and stride toward his office. The reception area is minimal—sleek, dark wood, smoked glass, and that ever-present hush of silence. No gold nameplates or flashy branding. Just quiet, terrifying efficiency.
I knock once, firm and succinct.
“Come in.”
The desk is black oak. The walls are lined with black-and-white photographs—mountains, frozen lakes, a hawk mid-flight. There’s no ego here—just sharpness, precision, and power.
The city stretches behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows. He sits behind his desk like some brooding statue in a Brioni suit.
When he looks up at me, the temperature in the room shifts.
“Miss Jones,” he says coolly. “Have a seat.”
God, he looks hot as hell. How is that even legal?
I lower myself into one of the chairs across from him, smoothing my slacks, trying to pretend I’m not half-imagining him bending me over the desk.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just studies me like he’s trying to see through my clothes—and my lies.
Then he slides a folder across the desk.
“This is your assignment today,” he says.
“I want a full analysis of the quarterly variance reports—look specifically at vendor line items 314 through 409. The labor cost allocations between subsidiaries are inconsistent. You’ll need to reconcile the expense logs with the Q3 and Q4 payment disbursements. Pull the audit trail if necessary.”
I nod. “You want anomaly tracking by source department or by project ledger?”
His brow lifts, then he smiles. Not a full smile. More like a smirk.
But on him? It’s lethal.