Page 36 of Cruel Demands

I set the glass down and wrap my arms around myself. Now that his hands are not on me, I become aware of everything else. My dress has ridden up too high. My tights and underwear are on the floor. My long, straight, dirty-blond hair and bangs are probably a disaster. My mouth feels swollen. My skin feels marked everywhere he kissed me, even where he didn’t leave marks.

Mikhail’s gaze tracks the movement of my arms. He walks to a dresser, opens a drawer, and pulls out a folded white shirt. Of course, even his shirt looks expensive. Crisp, soft, probably worth more than my luggage. He holds it out to me. “Bathroom is there,” he says, nodding toward a door. “You can change out of your dress.”

When I take it, our fingers brush. That tiny touch goes through the room like a match strike. Mikhail pulls his hand back first.

Victory, I think stupidly.

8

MIKHAIL

A few minutes later, I sit on the edge of the bed while she changes.

That is a mistake.

Standing would be better. Standing gives a man purpose. Standing suggests departure. Distance. Control. Sitting on the edge of the bed makes me look as if I’m waiting for her.

I am. That’s the problem.

The bathroom door opens. Taylor steps out wearing my shirt. For one second, I don’t breathe.

The shirt is too large for her, falling past her hips, the sleeves loose around her hands. The collar slips wide enough to show the slope of one tanned shoulder. Her long, straight, dirty-blond hair is loose now, tangled around her face from my hands and her own, her bangs mussed across her forehead. She has washed off what remained of her lipstick, but her mouth is still dark from mine.

I thought the shirt would make her look less exposed. I was wrong. The dress was a weapon. Tight. Black. Obvious. My shirt is worse. My shirt makes her look like she belongs here. That thought is obscene enough that I stand.

Taylor stops in the bathroom doorway. “What?”

“Nothing.”

She crosses the room slowly, arms folded over herself. Not modesty, exactly. Defense. She’s trying to decide what to be now that the dress is gone. Now that the alcohol is thinning. Now that I know what she has not done and she knows that I know.

Her eyes flick toward the bed. Then toward me. Then away.

I should tell her to sleep.

I should tell her I will be downstairs if she needs anything.

I should leave before the sight of her in my shirt becomes a memory I keep.

“Mikhail?” My name is softer this time.

I still.

“Don’t,” I say.

Her brows pull together. “Don’t what?”

“Say my name like that unless you want me to kiss you again.”

Color rises in her face. Good. Let her be embarrassed. Embarrassment may yet save her.

It doesn’t save me.

Because she looks at me for one long second, throat working, and says, “Will you sleep with me?”

Every thought in my head disappears.

Taylor’s eyes widen as if she hears herself a second too late. “I mean sleep.”