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“If you did, you wouldn’t have enrolled them at Horace Mann.”
We’re almost nose to nose now. I’m feeling anger and frustration and all sorts of self-righteous indignation. But I’m also feeling the kind of heat that makes a girl all too aware of her body.
I shudder and suppress it. “I will not let you turn me into my mother, Ruslan Oryolov. She used to have a mind of her own before my father convinced her that being an Upper East Side snob was the only life worth living.”
“You think I’m going to turn you into a snob?”
“I think you’re trying—unintentionally or intentionally, not sure yet—to turn me into a compliant doormat who does what you say at the drop of a hat.”
He pauses, inscrutable as ever. “Okay.”
I blink a couple of times. “Okay?”
He swallows hard and then takes a deep breath. With it, he steps back, getting out of my face. He might as well be waving around a white flag.
“You’re right. I’ve been the boss for a very long time. I’m not used to discussing anything with anyone. Frankly, it didn’t even cross my mind. I’ll be better.”
I blink some more. It’s just not computing. He’s… apologizing? Promising to be better? Changing—forme?
Somebody pinch me—I must be dreaming.
But then the grandfather clock on the wall chimes out the top of the hour and the dream doesn’t end. So I do the only reasonable thing to do in this situation: I launch myself into his arms, grab his face, and pull it to mine so I can give him one hell of a kiss.
When I’m done kissing him—for now, at least—I pull back long enough to look into his eyes. “Thankyou.”
“There’s gonna be a learning curve,” he warns.
Smiling, I nod. “I can handle that.”
“Good. Then let me handle you.”
Growling, he drops his lips to my neck and I’m suddenly aware of how hard he is. He pushes me back and I fall with a gasp against the edge of his desk. He sets my ass on the surface and spreads my legs fiercely. His eyes are glazed over like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming, either.
But when he pushes my panties to the side and slips inside of me, I hear his version of the same shuddering gasp that I just made.
This isn’t a dream.Not for him. Not for me. The sensation of him filling me, of me tightening around him, is proof of that.
He thrusts in and out of me, never losing eye contact for long. His finger slides into my mouth and I suck on it slowly, inflamed by the desire hurtling across his eyes.
It’s tentative, but it’s real. And it’s gonna work.
We’re gonnamakeit work.
40
RUSLAN
“Aw, come on, Ruslan! It’s been so long since I’ve been out of the house.”
She’s right about that. I’ve forced my littlekiskato be a shut-in and now that she’s got a little taste of freedom, she’s demanding more.
I have only myself to blame.
“We’ve been out all day, Emma.”
She turns those pleading blue eyes on me and grabs my arm. “Exactly! So what’s a couple more hours? I’mhungry.”
That’s how we end up at The Loaded Spoon. She scoots into her seat with a happy smile and it’s hard to regret agreeing to this in the first place. Emma deserves to be wined and dined. She deserves to be seen on my arm—not as a trophy or a prize, but the yin to my yang.
