CHAPTER 8
DIMITRI
The numbers dance before my eyes, refusing to form coherent patterns. I've been trying to organize security shifts for next week for half an hour, but my brain has other plans. Specifically, playing the image of Sloane in the gym on loop.
Sloane in those damn black leggings that clung to her legs like a second skin.
Sloane with that shirt open at the sides that gave a glimpse of her sports bra fighting heroically against tits I imagine are perfect.
Sloane watching me from the door, with that green gaze that seems to pierce right through me.
Fuck .
I toss the tablet onto the leather sofa and rub my face with both hands. This is pathetic. I'm acting like a horny teenager, not the second in command of the Bratva Morozov.
The whiskey in my glass—my third of the night—no longer offers the relief I was looking for. The apartment suddenly feels too small, the air too thick, my skin too sensitive.
I spring to my feet and start pacing the living room like a caged beast. The lights of Las Vegas blink on the other side of the windows, indifferent to my torment. Five thousand square feet of absolute luxury, and I feel suffocated.
With a growl of frustration, I yank my t-shirt off and throw it to the other end of the room. The cool air from the A/C against my overheated skin provides momentary relief.
It's not enough. Nothing is.
I drop back onto the sofa, my fingers already working on the buttons of my jeans. It wouldn't be the first time I jerk off thinking about her, even if I curse myself later. At least that way I'd manage to relieve this unbearable tension, it would allow me to think straight.
I've just undone the first button of my pants when a loud crash breaks the silence. Someone is pounding on my door as if they want to knock it down. The doorbell starts ringing insistently, an electric screech that drills into my eardrums.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" I roar, jumping up.
Who the hell dares to come to my house at this hour? If it's Viktor with another one of his legal problems, I swear I'll throw him off the balcony. And if it's one of the men with a report that could have waited until tomorrow...
I cross the apartment in long strides, anger increasing with every step. The doorbell keeps ringing, now held down continuously. Whoever it is, is begging for me to smash their face in.
I grab the doorknob and pull hard, ready to unload my fury on the idiot who interrupted my pathetic self-pity session.
And then the sight of her hits me.
Sloane is at my door. In pajamas. Pajamas that leave very little to the imagination.
My brain registers details at full speed: her long, toned legs exposed by ridiculously short shorts; the tank top clinging to her breasts; her red hair pulled up in a messy bun letting a few stray strands escape around her face; her bare feet with toenails painted dark red.
Mother of God .
A fierce heat spreads from my chest to my crotch. My erection, which had started to fade with the interruption, returns with a vengeance. I'm grateful the hallway light is dim, because I'm sure it would show through my unbuttoned jeans.
I watch how her eyes roam over my bare torso, stopping on my tattoos, on the scars that tell the story of a life of violence. I can almost feel her gaze like a physical touch, hot and electric on my skin.
When our eyes finally meet, I see something in hers that surprises me. It's not fear. It's not disgust. It's...
Desire?
No. Impossible.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I ask, my voice sounding rougher than I intended.
She seems to startle, as if waking from a trance. She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. It's the first time I've seen Sloane speechless, and a part of me deeply enjoys her fluster.
"I..." She clears her throat, straightening up. The war returns to her gaze. "We need to talk."
"At eleven at night?" I arch a brow. "Dressed like that?"
A blush creeps up her neck to her cheeks. Delicious.
"I'm not going to apologize for my outfit," she says, lifting her chin in that defiant gesture that provokes contradictory impulses in me: to break her or to worship her. "Harper told me you intend to assign me bodyguards."
So that's it. I should have guessed.
"It's not an intention," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. I notice how her eyes follow the movement. "It's a reality."
"Well, it's not happening," she declares, taking a step toward me. "I don't need babysitters."
Her scent hits me like a punch to the gut. She smells like vanilla and something citrusy—clean and feminine. I have to restrain myself from leaning in and burying my nose in the curve of her neck.
"They aren't babysitters," I reply, struggling to keep my voice calm. "They're professionals trained to keep you alive."
"Keep me alive?" She lets out a dry laugh. "How dramatic. Is Las Vegas a war zone? Is there something you guys aren't telling me?"
If you only knew, Red.
"I'm the head of security," I say, straightening up so she's aware of the size difference between us. "It's my job to guarantee the safety of everyone living under Morozov protection."
"I don't need protection."
"Everyone needs it," I growl. "In case you haven't noticed, this isn't Brooklyn. Alexei is filthy rich and powerful. That makes them targets. And you, by extension, are one now too."
"Because I'm staying here?" Her disbelief seems genuine.
"For being Alexei's wife's best friend. For living in this building. By association."
Sloane takes another step toward me, deliberately invading my personal space. Her proximity is intoxicating.
"I'm not going to have two goons following me everywhere," she says, every word loaded with defiance. "It would suffocate me."
"Then go back to New York."
The words slip out before I can stop them, and a bitter taste fills my mouth. It's the last thing I want. The idea of her leaving, of not being able to see her even from afar, fills me with an anxiety I don't want to examine.
Her expression changes, a mix of surprise and something else.
"You're a jerk," she says finally. "And a control freak."
"Have you got anything more interesting to tell me?" I ask, leaning slightly toward her. "Because it's late and I have things to do."
Her eyes narrow, green sparks of fury.
"Yeah. Fuck you."
"My pleasure," I reply, a crooked smile forming on my lips. "But you're still getting bodyguards whether you like it or not."
I don't know how it happened, but suddenly we're inches apart. I can count the freckles sprinkling her nose. I can feel the heat radiating from her body. I can see her pupils dilating, devouring the green of her irises.
My gaze falls involuntarily to her lips. They're parted, wet where her tongue has passed. It would be so easy to lean in those few inches and...
"Sloane!" Harper's voice breaks the spell like shattering glass. "There you are!"
We both jerk apart, like kids caught stealing cookies. I turn and see Harper approaching down the hall, wearing a silk robe over her pajamas and an apologetic expression.
"I'm sorry, Dimitri," she says, casting me a look I can't interpret. "I told her to wait until tomorrow."
"It's fine," I reply with a neutrality I don't feel. My heart is still hammering against my ribs.
Harper grabs Sloane's arm, gently but firmly.
"Come on, it's late. You have class early tomorrow."
Sloane looks like she wants to protest, but finally nods. When they start to walk away, I can't help calling out to her.
"Murphy. Let my men work in peace tomorrow."
She turns, her eyes still bright with fury.
For a second, I think she's going to come back to continue the argument. I almost wish she would. But with one last murderous look, she turns around and walks away with Harper.
I close the door and lean against it, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The sexual tension we just shared was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to calm my racing pulse. I haven't felt anything like this since... ever. I've never desired a woman with this almost painful intensity.
I go back to the sofa and drop down heavily. My erection is still throbbing under my unbuttoned jeans, reminding me how close I came to crossing a line I shouldn't cross.
But now, with her scent still lingering in my senses, with the image of her parted lips etched in my mind, I can't kid myself anymore.
I'm fucked. Completely fucked.
Because there's no way I can stay away from Sloane Murphy. Not when every fiber of my being is screaming to possess her.
And there's no way this ends well for either of us.