Page 50 of Emerald Malice

I plant my feet and cross my arms over my chest. This is the last straw. He’s spent the whole morning telling me how things are gonna be.

Sure, it’s a pretty pool house—but it’s his pool house. His bodyguards following me around all day. His credit card. His damn rules.

“There is no way you’re coming to work with me.”

He gives me a cocky smile. “Why don’t you just get in the car, lastochka?”

“I think I’d rather walk.”

I’m about to give him the hair-flip of my life when he shoots his hand out and grabs hold of me. The next thing I know, my back is pressed against the convertible and Andrey is breathing over me, those bewitching gray eyes boring into mine.

“I think not.”

A few people titter as they walk past us on the street. I even hear a wolf whistle from a gaggle of passing men.

“Get off of me.”

He doesn’t get off of me—he does the opposite, in fact. He leans in a little more forcefully, trapping me between the car and his body—which, in the interest of being fair, isn’t not attractive. His knee is wedged between my legs and the pressure he’s putting on a certain part of my anatomy is definitely not appropriate for polite company.

“Andrey!” I hiss. “Stop it.”

“Why? You seem to be enjoying it.”

“People are watching.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Let them.”

“You’re just gonna bully me until you get what you want, aren’t you?”

“What I want is your safety, Natalia. I take care of what is mine.”

My arms prickle with goosebumps. I try to swallow the unwelcome surge of pleasure that races through my body at his words.

“Except I’m not yours.”

He grinds his knee harder against my pussy, kneading slowly in soft, teasing movements. We’re gonna get arrested for indecent exposure if he keeps this up.

The problem is my protests are getting breathier and less earnest.

My cheeks are getting hotter and redder.

And my pussy is definitely getting wetter.

I’m so scared of letting out a moan that I have no choice but to clamp my mouth shut and pray that he finishes with me soon.

A pair of older ladies walk past us. Their casual smiles turn to shock and they avert their gazes fast. “Oh my…” I hear one gasp.

Bastard.

I bite down on my tongue and, just when I feel like I’m about to explode, he releases me and steps back.

I sag against the car, suddenly exhausted. Andrey, on the other hand, looks effortlessly calm and utterly composed. But a lopsided, borderline cruel smile simmers on his lips as he leans in, his breath hot against my cheek.

“Oh, you’re mine, lastochka. You just haven’t accepted it yet.”

18

NATALIA

---