Page 9 of Stalk Me

The Russian endearment slips past my defenses. Something in his gaze shifts and becomes almost gentle.

“Just one dance,” he murmurs. “Then you can return to pretending you don’t feel this.”

My hand lifts of its own accord, settling into his. His fingers close around mine, warm and strong.

“One dance,” I whisper. “That’s all.”

His smile is pure satisfaction as he leads me to the dance floor. “We’ll see.”

He pulls me closer than the proper waltz position demands. The string quartet starts a new melody, and we move together like we’ve danced a thousand times.

“You’re lighter on your feet than I expected for someone who quit ballet at sixteen,” Nikolai says.

My step falters. “How did you?—”

“The same way I know you prefer Earl Grey with honey, not sugar.” His thumb makes patterns on my back. “And that you spent last summer restoring a Vermeer in Amsterdam.”

“Have you been investigating me?” I ask.

“I make it my business to know everything about those I work with.” He guides me through a turn. “Though I admit, you’re far more fascinating than most.”

“That’s invasive,” I reply.

“Is it? Or is it prudent?” His breath fans my ear.

His fingers press into my hip, and I struggle to maintain composure. The anger at his invasion of privacy battles against the heat spreading through my core.

“You’re trembling,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “Is it fear or desire, I wonder?”

“You can’t just—” My protest cuts off as his hand slides lower on my back.

“Can’t what? Tell you how your skin flushes when I touch you?” His voice drops to a gravelly purr. “How I’ve imagined you spread out on my bed, begging for my touch?”

My breath catches. “We’re in public.”

“Your body knows what you need.” My thigh slides possessively between hers. “Fighting hard to maintain that facade while you’re aching to submit.”

“Stop.” It comes out as more of a whimper.

“Stop fighting what you need.” My mouth maps the vulnerable curve where the neck meets the shoulder. “You want me to tell you exactly what I will do to you. How I’ll bind those delicate wrists above your head. Make you beg. Make you call me Daddy while I?—”

“Mr. Ivanov,” I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulder.

“Nikolai,” he corrects. “Or Daddy. Your choice,malishka.”

This is insane. We’re surrounded by Boston’s elite, and he’s making me wet with arousal using just his words.

“You’re blushing so prettily.” His hand spans my lower back, fingertips teasing the curve of my ass. “Imagining it, aren’t you? How good you’ll look wearing nothing but rope and my marks.”

I bite my cheek to hold back a moan. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re soaked, I bet.” He pulls me tighter against his thigh. “What I’d do to feel that pretty little cunt of yours dripping for me.”

The music shifts, breaking the spell of his words. Reality crashes back—I’m in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum, grinding against one of Boston’s boldest men while half the city’s elite watches.

I wrench away from him, ignoring his darkening expression. “Excuse me.”

I flee, weaving through clusters of champagne-sipping socialites. I need air, space, and distance from his intoxicating presence.

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