"I don't take orders on my wardrobe."
"Tonight, you do," he says, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Unless you want me to dress you myself."
He walks away toward his office, leaving me standing there, my skin burning and my mind a chaotic mess of respect and resentment.
Two hours later, the suite is filled with the scent of perfume, hairspray, and a tension so thick it’s a miracle I can still move.
The dress is a floor-length slip of crimson silk that fits me like a second skin. It’s daring, elegant, and looks exactly like something a woman who climbed out a window shouldn't be wearing. I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror, struggling with the clasp of a diamond necklace, when the door to the bedroom opens.
Mikhail is already dressed in a black tuxedo. He looks devastating—the kind of man women ruin their lives for. He stops in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over me with a slow, possessive hunger that makes my hands shake.
"Let me," he purrs.
He walks across the room, his footsteps silent on the rug. He stands behind me, his reflection towering over mine in the mirror. I watch him as he reaches for the necklace. His large, calloused fingers are surprisingly gentle as they brush against the back of my neck.
I can feel him watching me, studying every inch of exposed skin, and my body unconsciously responds, my back arches, my lips part in a soft breath. My tongue darts out to wet my lower lip as his fingers linger at the base of my neck.
Gods, I’m wet… for him, for a man like Mikhail.
The heat from his body is wrapping around me, making the silk of the dress feel like it’s too tight.
"You're shaking," he observes, his voice a low, intimate rumble.
"It’s cold in here," I whimper, my eyes meeting his in the mirror.
"Is it?" He clicks the clasp into place, but he doesn't pull his hands away. Instead, they slide down to my shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of my collarbone. The touch is a brand. I can feel the weight of his gaze on my reflection, tracing the swell of my breasts beneath the silk, the curve of my waist.
God, help me… I want this man, badly.
"The dress is... acceptable," he murmurs, though the look in his eyes says it’s much more than that.
"Acceptable? I look like a goddess," I snap, my sass returning as a defense against the way my knees are starting to weaken. "You should be on your knees thanking me for making you look like you have good taste."
Mikhail lets out a low, dark laugh. He leans down, his face disappearing into the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, the scent of my perfume and my skin clearly affecting him. I can feel the rough stubble of his jaw against my shoulder, the heat of his breath.
"I’m not the one who should be on my knees tonight,dorogaya," he whispers.
The preparation for this event has turned into a battlefield of a different kind. Every look, every accidental brush of skin, is a provocation. He watches me as I put on my earrings, his gaze never wavering. He watches me as I step into my heels. He watches me like he’s making sure his prize hasn't been damaged in transit.
"Are we done staring?" I ask, grabbing my clutch. "Or do you need to check the 'contract' one more time to make sure you're getting your money's worth?"
Mikhail reaches out, catching my arm and spinning me around to face him. He pins me against the dresser, his hands on either side of my hips.
"I’ve decided you’re worth the stress you put me through. But do you think you’re ready?”
“R-ready? Ready for what?”
“For this. Ready to be mine.”
To be his? Yes? No?
Fucking hell what am I doing??
He leans close with a wicked, sexy grin on his lips. “Ready or not,dorogaya, it has happened. You are mine now, you better be prepared for what that means.”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to let him see how much he’s getting to me. "I grew up a Petrov, Mikhail. I’m always prepared."
"Then make sure you don't forget it," he purrs.
