Page 3 of Stalk Me

That slight pause betrays her wariness before she commits to the contact. Lightning courses through my veins at her touch—soft elegance meets my calculated strength. Her handshake reveals the steel beneath her sophistication.

I hold the handshake a fraction longer than necessary, letting my thumb brush across her knuckles. A small sound catches in her throat.

When she attempts to retrieve her hand, I hold tighter for a moment— long enough to establish dominance. Her eyes dart to mine, recognition flashing in those depths.

I release her hand, and she immediately tucks it behind her back. As if she can hide the effect of my touch.

“Good evening, Ms. Henley.”

Her voice follows me to the door. “Good evening, Nikolai.”

Hearing her say my name sends blood straight to my cock. I pause at the threshold, my hand tightening on the doorframe. How she said it softly and almost breathy strips away any pretense of professional distance.

My cock hardens against my tailored slacks. I adjust my jacket to hide the evidence, grateful for its precise cut. The urge to turn around, to push her against that pristine desk and show her exactly what that voice does to me, nearly overwhelms my control.

I draw a measured breath, letting the predator inside me savor her scent one last time. Jasmine and vanilla—an intoxicating combination that makes my mouth water.

It’s an effort to force myself to walk away, each step measured and controlled despite the growing ache between my legs. The click of her door closing behind me reverberates through the now-empty gallery. My hands curl into fists, imagining her silk dress bunched between my fingers.

Soon. Very soon, Sofia Henley will understand the repercussions of refusing Nikolai Ivanov.

2

SOFIA

Ismooth my hands over my pencil skirt for the tenth time, checking my reflection in the gallery window. The space is different after hours—emptier, more intimate. I double-check the wine selection I’ve laid out.

A week has passed since Nikolai Ivanov paid over the market value for one of my most provocative pieces. Not to mention, arrogantly asked me out, not that I’m a stranger to that kind of behavior when it comes to my clients. Many men I sell art to are rich and think they are entitled to anything they want, including me. However, there was something different about Nikolai. He exuded quiet confidence, and he was the first man whose offer I wanted to consider.

Nikolai Ivanov left an impression on me I can’t shake, so when he asked for a private viewing, I agreed. His eyes were like arctic frost, and he seemed to see right through my professional facade.

My phone buzzes with a security notification, alerting me to his arrival. Drawing in a deep breath, I remind myself this is just business. Art acquisition. Nothing more. Yet my pulse quickens, recalling his firm handshake and how his fingers lingered a fraction too long.

The gallery’s track lighting casts dramatic shadows across the walls, highlighting each piece I’ve carefully selected and arranged. Art has always been my sanctuary—my escape, passion, and purpose. Tash constantly teases me about being a workaholic, but she doesn’t understand. When my adoptive parents died in that accident two years ago, art was the only thing that kept me anchored. While the rest of my world crumbled, these pristine walls and carefully curated collections remained constant. Dependable. Unlike people, art doesn’t leave you.

I’ve positioned each piece strategically throughout the space, anticipating Nikolai’s arrival. This is what I do best—creating the perfect atmosphere and telling stories through placement and light. It’s more than just a job; it’s how I make sense of the world and how I maintain control when everything else feels chaotic.

My hands aren’t quite steady as I arrange the wine glasses.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the empty gallery. I fight the impulse to check my lipstick again. This is ridiculous. I’ve handled plenty of private showings before, but there’s something about Nikolai’s commanding presence that puts me off balance.

A gentle knock sends my heart racing. I square my shoulders and move to answer the door, my professional smile already in place. The handle is cold against my sweaty palm as I open the door to face him.

“Mr. Ivanov, “I try to steady my voice, but it comes out steely. “Thank you for coming.”

His tall frame fills the doorway, and his perfectly tailored suit emphasizes his broad shoulders. His subtle cologne drifts over me, making my mouth dry.

Through the doorway, I drink in his devastatingly handsome features. Silver threads at his temples catch the gallery lights, lending distinction to his dark hair. Nature has crafted him withthe same unforgiving precision as Michelangelo’s chisel—each angle of his face a study in masculine perfection and predatory gray eyes that strip away my careful composure with just a glance.

A day’s worth of stubble shadows his jaw, making him look even more polished rather than unkempt. He’s the kind of man who turns heads without trying, who commands attention through sheer magnetism.

The telltale signs of aging only enhance his appeal, like a fine wine reaching its peak. I’d put him around forty, but there’s something timeless about him. His perfectly tailored charcoal suit emphasizes broad shoulders that taper to narrow hips. The cut is immaculate, probably bespoke, and costs more than most people make in months.

That small scar through his left eyebrow catches my attention—the only imperfection in an otherwise flawless face. It makes him human and adds character to those aristocratic features. I find myself wondering about its story.

When he moves past me into the gallery, it’s with a predatory grace that makes my breath catch. Every gesture of his is precise, controlled, and deliberate. Nothing about this man is accidental.

“Sofia.” My name in his voice is aged cognac, rich and dangerous, pooling low in my stomach. “The pleasure is mine.”

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