Page 64 of Claimed By Desire

I glare at the camera and flip it off. The camera shakes side to side almost like it’s laughing at me. I flush with frustration, annoyance, and something else.

A warmth between my legs.

I glance at the texts again.I like that bikini.He’s looking at me right now, and he’s really seeing me. He’s not just watching because he wants to make sure that I’m not violating his sacred space somehow?—

He’s watching because he likes looking.

And I like to be looked at.

Which is an extremely new and bizarre idea, and I’m immediately repulsed. I mean, this is freaking Alex. Why the heck would I want him to look at me while I’m wearing my bathing suit?

I don’t care if he thinks I look good.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I head outside, but I can’t concentrate. I know that camera’s still staring with Alex at the other end. He’s watching my every move, and it’s driving me crazy.

Because I like it. I want to perform for him. I want to make him as frustrated as I feel right now. I want him to want me, just from staring at a tiny image of me on his phone screen.

And I hate that about myself.

I march back inside, go into the bedroom, and grab one of his t-shirts. Then I throw it over the camera and cover the lens.

Alexander: Take that down right now.

Natalya: No thanks.

Alexander: Don’t test me, printsessa. I’ll come here and you won’t like the consequences.

A thrill runs into my stomach, but I wish it away.

Natalya: Your threats aren’t very scary. Why don’t you find someone else to stalk and creep on?

I expect a reply, but there’s nothing. After a few seconds, I give up and go eat my lunch.

I spend some more time in the pool before I get tired and bored, and decide to head in to take a shower. The water’s nice and hot and the glass walls are covered in steam when I hear the door to the apartment bang open.

I’m scared for only a few seconds before Alexander appears in the bathroom. He stands there glaring death at me as I wipe a little hole in the fog to look back out at him.

He’s got the t-shirt I used to cover the camera gripped in one fist.

“You haven’t figured it out yet, have you, baby,” he says and his voice is low and dangerous.

“Can you get the hell out?” I snap at him, doing my best to cover my chest with one arm.

“We aren’t playing games.” He comes toward me, hesitates, and then rips his own shirt off. He tosses it on the ground. “You are indanger, Natalya. The Marinos want you dead for what we did.”

“Iknowthat, but it doesn’t mean you get to be an overbearing, controlling, obsessive prick.”

“You’re pregnant with my child.” He unbuckles his belt and I swallow as I stare at his rippling muscle. His bicep flexes as he undoes it and deftly flicks open his fly with one hand. “You’re my wife.” He tugs at his jeans until they pool around his ankles. He’s in only a pair of boxer briefs now, and my god, he looks incredible.

Pounds of ripped, firm muscle cover his big frame. Tattoos swirl on his chest: a broken door, a gun oozing blood, a pair of crossed blades over his heart with the wordsdo kontsabelow them.

Until the end.

He presses one palm against the glass of the shower. I feel trapped, but not afraid. My body’s pulsing with desire for him and my nipples are rock hard, the stupid traitors. I’m dripping wet and it’s not the water rolling down my skin.

It’s him. It’s Alexander. Big, bold, beautiful Alexander. Perfectly flawed Alexander. He stares death and hate at me, the t-shirt I used to cover the camera still in his hand.

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