Page 16 of Stalk Me

Nikolai’s lips brush my ear, his breath tickling my skin. “You love the idea of surrendering, don’t you, baby girl? Letting Daddy take charge.”

A rush of liquid pools between my legs at his words. I can’t even be outraged at the “daddy” comment. My inner walls clench at the thought.

“I can see it in your eyes,” he whispers. “You crave it. Need it.” His hand reaches my core, and he growls softly. “And you’re so fucking wet, aren’t you?”

His fingers slip beneath my panties, finding my arousal. The muted sounds of the ballroom fade away as a new awareness fills my senses—the pulse between my legs, the ache in my breasts.

“You’re so responsive,malishka. Eager for my touch.” His voice is dark with desire.

I squeeze my thighs together, helpless to stop the instinctual reaction. “Please,” I whisper again, afraid to say more, afraid to give him the power to incinerate me with a few well-chosen words.

“Please, what?” His fingers circle, teasing but never quite giving me what I crave.

Heat rushes to my face. I struggle to voice my submission. “Touch me,” I eventually rasp.

“With pleasure.” His fingers slip lower, finding my aching core, and he pushes a single digit into my tightness.

I brace myself on the table, trying to ground myself. What am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t let men control me like this, especially not in public. Yet here I am, trembling under Nikolai’s touch, unable to form a coherent thought.

“You’re fighting it,” he murmurs. “Always so determined to maintain control.”

My fingers wrap around my water glass. He’s right. I’ve spent years building my reputation in art, cultivating an image of cool professionalism. One touch from him, and I’m coming undone.

“I don’t...” I swallow hard. “I don’t do this.”

“No?” His thumb traces patterns on my skin. “`Why aren’t you stopping me, then?”

The question surprises me. Why aren’t I? I’m Sofia Henley. I run a prominent Boston gallery. I negotiate million-dollar deals with ease. I’ve turned down advances from countless wealthy men.

But with Nikolai... there’s something different about him. He looks at me like he can see straight through my carefully constructed walls. The quiet authority in his voice coaxes me to yield.

“You’re overthinking,malishka.” His fingers tighten possessively. “Let go.”

A shiver skates down my spine at his commanding tone, crumbling my usual defenses.

“I can’t,” I whisper, but I don’t know if I’m protesting his touch or my own response.

“You can,” he counters. “You will.”

Heaven help me, I want to. Want to surrender to this magnetic pull between us and let him strip away my control until there’s nothing but raw need.

I’ve never experienced anything like this—this overwhelming desire to submit and let someone else take charge. To trust someone else with my pleasure, my safety, my surrender.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it sends another rush of heat through my body.

I grip my fork, trying to focus on the roasted duck breast. Each bite turns to ash in my mouth as Nikolai’s fingers dance along my soaked core, keeping me balanced on a knife’s edge of pleasure.

“You’re being very quiet, Sofia.” His voice carries enough concern to seem genuine to others at the table. “Not enjoying your meal?”

I glare at him, but it loses its effect when he circles my clit with his thumb. “It’s... perfect,” I manage.

“Here, try this.” He lifts his fork to my lips, offering a bite of his filet mignon. The intimate gesture draws knowing smiles from the others at our table.

As I part my lips, he curls his fingers inside me. I nearly choke on the meat.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Small bites.”

My thighs tremble the moment he finds the spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes. Just as the pressure builds, he withdraws, leaving me empty and aching.

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