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His head dips to my ear. “If we weren’t almost there, I’d indulge you, Plamyashka,” he growls. “Give the driver something to get hard about. Do you want him to hear me claiming you? I do. I want the entire city to hear the sweet sounds you make when you fall apart.”

A soft moan slips out, and his mouth covers mine, swallowing the sound. His hand moves to the back of my head, cradling it as he parts my lips and feeds me his tongue.

All I can do is clutch at his shoulders to hold on.

Suddenly, the car jolts to a stop, and he breaks away with a muttered curse. He presses his head against mine, eyes searching mine. “How was your interview?”

“Huh?” I blink at him, still dazed, and the corner of his mouth lifts into that sexy smile that scrambles my thoughts.

“You did have an interview, didn’t you?” His tone turns mocking, only adding to my confusion.

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The interview you had here today…” he trails off, his expression shifting—and like that, the spell shatters.

The interview. Shit. “No, that’s—” I start, but the door opens before I can salvage it.

The driver stands there, holding it open, and relief hits me so hard I get dizzy. What was I going to say? I had no excuse ready for him. That’s something I should have come up with and practiced all this morning. What the hell is wrong with me?

I step out quickly, Dimitri following suit, and take the opportunity to collect myself while looking up at the building in front of us. It’s four stories of concrete and glass, a matte-black awning at the top with a brand name I recognize etched in silver—subtle, but impossible to miss. Behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, mannequins stand draped in silk dresses, while beaded clutches sparkle under the setting sun like scattered jewels. Every square inch of this place screams quiet, effortless luxury. Way out of my league.

“What are we doing here?”

“My brother’s getting married in two days. You’re coming with me.” He buttons his shirt cuffs, then settles his hand at the base of my spine, the touch burning through the fabric.

“I—uh, what?”

He doesn’t respond, or give me a chance to process what the hell he just said. Instead, he firmly steers me through the store’s revolving doors.

Warning sirens blare in my head, but they’re quickly drowned out by the store’s interior.

Wow.

The air inside is cool, carrying that polished, expensive scent I’ve only ever noticed in places I don’t belong. As I glance around the nearly empty ground floor, a uniformed man materializes from somewhere near the back and approaches with a polite smile.

“Good evening, sir and madam. I’m afraid we’re closed for the day.”

“That’s okay,” I mutter quickly, eagerly turning to leave, but Dimitri’s hand doesn’t move from my spine.

“I know. I booked the store. Dimitri Petrov.”

The man’s eyes almost pop out of his head, his skin going pale. “Right—my sincere apologies, sir. I had no idea. Please, this way.” He steps aside in a hurry, gesturing toward a curved staircase with glass balustrades that catch the glow of the chandelier above. “The store manager is expecting you.”

Dimitri gives a casual nod, like this kind of reaction is nothing new, and leads me up the stairs. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, unease curling low in my stomach. That poor guy looked genuinely terrified hearing his name alone.

“What?” he asks mildly, and I face forward.

“Nothing.”

He lets it go, and I take everything in.

The second floor is even more breathtaking. Dresses in every shade and cut line the space, some draped over mannequins, others hanging like art. Shelves display heels and clutches that gleam under silver lighting.

“Mr. Petrov.” An elegantly dressed woman approaches us, her posture straight, her accent soft but refined. “I’m Beverly Adams, the store manager, and I’ll be assisting you this evening. Please follow me.”

She leads us through a closed doorway into a space that feels more like a private lounge than part of a store. Muted beige settees line the walls, a sleek center table in front of them with neatly arranged fashion magazines and a tray holding a sealed bottle of water and glass cups. A massive floor-to-ceiling mirror dominates one side, and beside it—dresses. So many dresses.

“I took an educated guess based on your picture and set aside every dress I think might fit you,” she tells me, waving her hand at the collection.