Page 5 of Stalk Me

The click of the door closing echoes through the gallery. I sink against the wall, my legs trembling. The space feels emptier without his commanding presence, yet still charged with electricity.

“Enough,” I whisper, fighting to still my shaking hands as I adjust my designer skirt. Yet every heartbeat echoes with remembered heat—his body caging mine, his deliberate touch mapping my jaw, that wolfish gleam in steel-colored eyes when I dared mention security measures.

I cross to my desk and pour myself a generous glass of wine. The burgundy liquid sloshes against the crystal as I try to steady my grip. One kiss. One kiss, and he’s demolished every professional boundary I’ve built.

Looking in the window, I can see my flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. I barely recognize myself—I’m not the collected gallery owner I’ve worked so hard to become. Still, as I try to calm myself, his words echo.

What I want is you.

I quivered beneath his attention, and we both had to know the cool evening air wasn’t to blame. The predatory grace in his movements, the quiet power in his voice—everything about him screams danger. Yet here I stand, already aching for his touch again.

The security camera feed catches my eye. His sleek black car still idles outside, and I know he’s watching. Waiting.

No force in thiscity could prevent me from claiming what’s mine.

I drain my wine glass, trying to ignore how my body responds to the memory of his kiss. Tonight changed everything, crossed lines that can’t be uncrossed. And despite every rational thought screaming warnings, a small part of me is already counting the minutes until I see him again.

3

NIKOLAI

The afternoon sun casts long shadows through the gallery windows as I watch her move. I’m haunted by her—the graceful sound she makes when she laughs, the unconscious sway of her hips as she walks, the way her honey-blonde hair catches the light. Sofia Henley. Even her name feels like silk on my tongue.

I’ve seen countless beautiful women, but there’s something different about her—something that makes my blood burn. Perhaps it’s how she carries herself—that perfect posture or the deliberate precision of her gestures. Every movement is a symphony of controlled elegance that makes me want to shatter her composure.

The light catches her profile as she adjusts a painting, and my fingers itch to trace her jawline to test if her skin is as soft as it appears. I want to wrap that long hair around my fist and make her bend to my will. The urge to possess her, to own every breath, every gesture, consumes my waking thoughts.

It unsettles me. I don’t lose control, not over women, not over anything. I’m Nikolai Ivanov. I’ve built an empire on perfect discipline, calculated moves, and never allowing emotion to cloud my judgment. Yet here I am, watching her like somelovesick teenager instead of the feared man I am. Something about her breaks through every wall I’ve built, making me forget decades of carefully maintained control.

The sharp click of my designer leather shoes on marble draws her attention. Her eyes widen, green-gold irises darkening as she recognizes me. A slight flush stains her cheeks, betraying her composure. “Mr. Ivanov? I didn’t expect you today.”

“The Degas you listed this morning.” I approach her. “Three hours ago, to be precise.”

“The ballet dancer study?” Her head bobs. “I didn’t realize you monitored our listings so closely.”

I reach past her to adjust a crooked frame on the wall, my arm brushing her shoulder. “I monitor everything that interests me, Ms. Henley.”

That intoxicating scent of jasmine and vanilla floods my senses. My fingers linger on the frame longer than necessary, keeping her caged against the wall. She doesn’t step away.

“The Degas deserves a private viewing.” I watch goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of her collarbones. “Though I find myself more captivated by other works of art in this room.”

Sofia’s breath catches as her back presses against the wall. “Mr. Ivanov?—”

“Nikolai.” The correction is a growl. “We’re well past formalities,malishka.”

Her pupils dilate at the endearment. “Nikolai, this is highly unprofessional.”

“Is that why you’re not stepping away?” I place my palm flat against the wall. The flush spreading across her cheeks tells me everything her words won’t.

“I should show you the Degas.” But her eyes drop to my mouth.

“Should.” My finger follows the elegant line of her jaw. “Always bound by rules, aren’t you? Share your darkest cravings with me.”

She meets my gaze, that hint of steel I’d noticed before flashing in her eyes. “What I want isn’t always what’s wise.”

“Wisdom is overrated.” I lean closer, my lips a breath from her ear. “Safety is an illusion. But this electricity between us is real.”

Her hands clench, fighting the urge to touch me.

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