Page 4 of Stalk Me

I lead him through the gallery, feeling the electricity of his presence behind me. Though I’m discussing the provenance of an early twentieth-century painting, his focus seems elsewhere. His questions are precise but personal, sliding between art expertise and subtle inquiries about my background.

“Your eye for authenticity is remarkable.” He steps closer, warmth radiating from his body. “How did you develop such... discerning taste?”

My breath catches. “Years of study. Columbia’s program was thorough.”

“Columbia.” He hums, reaching past me to trace the frame of the painting. His chest brushes my shoulder. “Yet you chose Boston to establish yourself.”

“The art scene here has unique opportunities.” I step sideways, needing space to think clearly. “Though I suspect you’re less interested in Boston’s gallery culture than you’re pretending to be.”

That dangerous half-smile curves his mouth. “Very observant. Since you declined my dinner invitation, I had to be creative.”

“So this isn’t about the art at all?” Heat creeps up my neck.

“The art is exquisite.” The intensity of his stare makes my pulse jump. “But not what draws me here.”

I back up, bumping into a pedestal. He steadies me, his hand burning through my blouse. Neither of us moves.

“This is inappropriate,” I whisper, but don’t pull away.

“Is it?” His thumb traces small circles on my arm. “You arranged a private showing. After hours.”

“For business.”

“Keep your illusions, if you must.” He closes the distance between us, his presence overwhelming my senses. “Though denial suits neither of us.”

Years of professional poise can’t quiet my racing heart. His hand lifts, deliberately and gently, as he brushes my hair back, and breathing becomes an art I’ve forgotten.

“Say the word,” he breathes against my skin, “and this ends.”

I should. I know I should. But the words won’t come.

The space between us disappears with agonizing slowness. First, his heat hits me, and then his breath ghosts across my skin, giving me goosebumps. Time stretches like heated glass as he hovers, letting the anticipation build until I’m trembling.

When his lips capture mine, it’s with the intensity of a gathering storm. One heartbeat of resistance, then I’m drowningin sensation, surrendering to a kiss that’s pure possession—everything I knew he would be, everything I’ve fought against wanting.

Reality crashes back. I wrench away, stumbling backward. “That’s enough.” My voice shakes but gains strength. “This is a place of business, Mr. Ivanov. If you can’t maintain professional boundaries, I’ll have security escort you out.”

A dark chuckle escapes him. The sound raises goosebumps along my arms.

“Security?” His expression shifts, something dangerous flickering behind those steel eyes. “You think your rent-a-cops could remove me?”

The temperature in the room drops. I steady myself against a nearby table, suddenly unsure of my footing. The sophisticated businessman’s facade cracks, revealing something predatory beneath.

“I don’t know who you think you are?—”

“No.” He cuts me off, moving closer again. “You don’t. That’s becoming increasingly clear.”

My chest tightens as he towers over me. Gone is the polite art collector, replaced by someone who radiates raw power. I’ve miscalculated badly.

“Let me be clear about what I want, Sofia.” His finger’s path along my jawline draws an involuntary shiver, my treacherous body seeking more. “You. No force in this city could prevent me from claiming what’s mine. And make no mistake...” His thumb ghosts across my sensitive lip, a reminder of his kiss. “You were mine the moment I saw you.”

The quiet intensity in his voice terrifies me more than any show of force could. This isn’t just desire. It’s something more consuming. And despite every warning bell screaming in my head, part of me thrills at the danger in his touch.

“You should leave,” I manage to whisper.

“I will.” His hand drops away. “For now.”

I watch Nikolai’s broad shoulders as he strides toward the exit, my body alive from his touch. His cologne still floats through the air, a masculine blend that weakens my knees. My fingertips trace my lips where his kiss branded me moments ago.

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