Page 15 of Stalk Me

I grip my water glass, maintaining composure as servers circle with the first course. Nikolai’s hand doesn’t move.

The first course arrives—a delicate butternut squash soup. My spoon trembles as I focus on eating. His thumb continues its maddening circles higher up my thigh.

“You should eat,” he murmurs. “You’ll need your strength.”

I glare at him. “Remove your hand.”

“Make me.” His fingers inch higher, and my thighs clench.

I eat a spoonful of soup, determined to maintain my composure. The elderly couple across from us chats about their recent trip to Paris.

Nikolai leans closer, and his breath fans my neck. “You’re so tense. So responsive.”

“I could have you thrown out,” I threaten weakly, knowing full well that I don’t truly want him to stop. This situation is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I pride myself on my self-control and poise, yet here I am, succumbing to his advances despite my better judgment. I should pull away and end this charade before it goes too far, but the words die in my throat as his fingers dance over my skin.

“Then why aren’t you stopping me?” His fingers trace patterns that make my breath hitch. “Why are your legs spreading wider?”

I hadn’t even realized I’d done it. Mortified, I snap my legs shut, but his hand stops me.

“Now, finish your soup like nothing’s happening. Show me how much control you possess.”

My hand shakes as I lift another spoonful. His fingers edge higher, and I sink my teeth into my lip to stifle a moan. The silk of my dress offers no barrier against his touch.

“God, you’re wet already?” His voice drops lower. “Your arousal is coating your inner thighs.”

The spoon clatters against the bowl. Several heads turn our way.

“Everything alright, dear?” Margaret calls from two seats down.

I force a smile. “Just a bit clumsy tonight.”

Nikolai’s hand tightens possessively. “Don’t worry. I’ll ensure she’s taken care of.”

The double meaning in his words makes me squirm. His thumb finds a particularly sensitive spot.

“Careful now,” he whispers. “We wouldn’t want anyone to notice how desperate you are for me, would we?”

His thumb continues its relentless torture, and I can no longer meet the concerned gaze of our tablemates.

Nikolai’s mouth finds my ear, his words sending shivers through me. “My perfectmalishka,” he growls against my ear, “already so ready for me.’ “

I clench my thighs together, desperate to hide the evidence of my body’s betrayal. Instead, it increases the pressure. “Please,” I whisper, unsure what I’m begging for anymore.

“Please, what?” His lips mark a path along my neck. “Are you finally going to admit what you want, Sofia?”

“S-stop.” Even to my own ears, the denial lacks any conviction. How can I ask him to stop when every fiber of my being craves his touch?

“Stop?” His fingers delve deeper, and I have to bite my lip to muffle a moan. “You don’t want me to stop, baby girl. You want me to keep going.”

“N-no.” My denial is weak, but my body betrays me, arching into his hand.

“What do you want, Sofia?” He asks again, his voice a silken thread drawing me closer to the edge. “Tell me what you need, and I might just give it to you.”

His hand slips under my dress, sliding up my bare thigh. “You need a man to take control, don’t you?”

It feels like a challenge—a silent invitation to something darker. I pause, teetering on the edge of indecision. Every instinct tells me to pull away, to end this charade before it goes too far. But something about him—the way he commands the space around us, the heat in his eyes—draws me closer to the edge.

My eyes dart around the table, but thankfully, everyone else seems engrossed in their own conversations.

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