chapter 4

DAPHNE

I should be mortified by what just happened.

I should be terrified I’m going to lose my job.

Instead, I’m laughing and giggling and running through the hall hand-in-hand with this insane man I only just met. He’s got the bottle of absinthe in his other hand, though hell only knows when he found time to recover that, and we keep passing it between us to take long gulps.

He gives it to me and nods at a door. “What’s this?”

I shrug. “Some storage closet. We only use it for overflow.”

He tries the doorknob. It opens. He gives me a wicked grin and winks. “That’ll do.”

Then he pulls me inside.

I follow him in and the door swings closed behind us. I don’t know why, but being alone with this man suddenly has me feeling all warm and self-conscious. I wrap my arms around myself and toe the cement floor.

The laughter fades. The craziest man I’ve ever crossed paths with turns his back on me and starts thumbing through canvases stacked against the wall.

His face scrunches up at the sight of one of them. “The hell is this supposed to be?”

I lean against his arm and peer at the print in question. “Leda and the Swan. Which was a reimagination of the Greek myth.”

“Which was about as fucked up as this… I guess you could call it a ‘painting,’ but it seems like a stretch to call it ‘art.’”

I giggle. “You know, you don’t strike me as the academic type.”

He sighs and sets the painting back in its place. “I’m not.”

“But you seem to know a lot about art. Mythology. Classical stuff.”

“I’ve read books on occasion, believe it or not.”

At first, I think I’ve crossed a line. But then he flashes me that disarming smile and slowly swaggers toward me until I’m backed into a folding table set up as a makeshift desk.

“So, moya plamya…” He takes a swig from the bottle of absinthe, but never once looks away from me. “How does it feel to be the vandalizer of someone’s very, very expensive property?”

I can’t hold back the impish grin. I grab the bottle from his grasp and tip it back to take my own deep sip. But right when I’m about to swallow, he holds my chin, pulls me to him, and kisses me.

I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced anything as erotic as this.

His tongue sweeps between my lips; he’s drinking the liquor from my mouth. And even when there’s nothing left, he does it again, and again… stroking my tongue with his, drawing soft moans from my throat.

When he pulls away, I’m left completely breathless.

“Like that,” I pant. “It feels like that.”

He smirks. Sets the bottle down.

And then, next thing I know, I’m sitting on the edge of the table and he’s wedged between my legs. His hands rub my thighs, teasing my dress up to my waist.

“Wait!” I gasp. “I don’t even know your name.”

He chuckles against my throat and sucks a warm kiss onto my skin. “Pasha.”

“Pasha.”

“Mhm.”

“Russian?”

“What gave it away?”

“Probably the part where you started speaking Russian.” It’s lame, I know. But the way he’s touching me, leaving trails of fire along my skin and sending shivers of pleasure straight to my core… I’m scrambling to maintain some grasp on my sanity. Quippiness is not high on my list of skills at the moment.

Pasha reaches up to cradle my face in his hands. I’ve never been so held by a man before. Revered. Worshiped, really–that’s the only word for it. It makes my heart race in ways it has no business doing.

“You are so fucking beautiful. Do you know that?”

On a logical level, I know I’m not the ugliest duckling. I’ve got most of my features in the right places, more or less. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth, all that good stuff.

Did Conrad ever take the time to tell me that?

… Not so much.

At the reminder of everything else that’s happened today, my cheeks burn with shame. I try to look away, but Pasha keeps holding me in place. I try to lower my gaze, but he kisses my eyelids and my heart instantly hurts.

I want him.

I want him to want me.

But…

“I can’t. Do this, I mean.” I brace my hands against his chest. His very solid, very warm, very carved chest. “I can’t fraternize with a client.”

Pasha regards me for a moment. “You may not remember this, but you just burnt the only bridge between me being a client and not. I officially own nothing that was purchased here.”

He smells incredible. Like leather and wood and sex. It’s intoxicating, paired with the sound of his deep voice.

“So that doesn’t matter anymore,” he continues. “Nothing does. Nothing but you and me. Right here. Right now. So…” His thumb rubs my bottom lip. “What’s it going to be, moya plamya?”

The part of me determined to be a good girl scolds me for even being in this backroom with him.

The rest of me tells that part to shut the fuck up and kiss him already.

Our lips collide. Pasha’s chest rumbles with a pleased growl. I start popping buttons open so I can feel his bare skin beneath my fingers. He’s a literal wall of muscle and heat and I sense his heart racing underneath my palm.

I want to taste him.

Every. Last. Inch. Of. Him.

His hands envelop me as he caresses my body, so far up beneath my dress I have half a mind to rip the damn thing off. I feel his fingers smooth up my waist and stroke my back… and then my bra pops open.

My eyes widen with surprise. That was smooth.

Pasha breaks away from our kiss to look at me.

“Is the door locked?” I pant.

He nods. But then that grin widens as he peels my dress up and over my head. “Would it matter if it wasn’t?”