Page 50 of 10 Days to Ruin

Feliks herds Yannik toward the door, throwing me a knowing smirk over his shoulder before pulling it shut. The click of the latch echoes in the sudden silence.

Then I turn on Ariel.

“What,” I growl, “do you think you’re doing?”

17

SASHA

The door clicks shut, sealing us in a silence thick enough to choke on. I don’t move. Can’t move. Not with her standing there, looking like every forbidden fantasy I’ve ever crushed beneath my boot.

The glasses. The shirt straining over her breasts. The skirt that should be illegal.

One nail in my coffin after the next.

My blood roars in my ears, a primal drumbeat. It’s accompanied by voices saying things I can’t let myself do.

Grab her.

Bend her.

Fuckingtakeher.

Ariel tilts her head, lips curving into a coy smile. “You look tense, darling.” She drags the word out like a blade, testing its edge against my patience.

It’s fucking embarrassing how well it works.

“What are you doing here?” My voice is gravel, my fists clenched at my sides.

It’s a rhetorical question; I know exactly what she’s doing. But I want to hear her say it. I want her to admit this is a game, so I can tear it the fuck apart.

She shrugs. Her blouse slips just enough to reveal the lace strap of her bra. “Can’t a fiancée visit her future husband at work?”

“You’re not my fiancée yet.”

“Oh, but I will be.” She sashays closer, hips switching wildly with every step. “Ten days, right? Or nine now, I suppose. Might as well get acquainted until then.”

Her scent hits me—jasmine and peaches, the same as that night in the bathroom. It floods my lungs, my throat, my skull. I’m drowning in it.

She stops inches from my desk, her hip brushing the edge. “You’re not working, are you?” Her fingers trail over my closed laptop, painted nails tapping the lid. “Seems like you’re just sitting here. Brooding.Menacing.”

“‘Menacing’?”

“Mm.” She leans forward, bracing her hands on the desk. The blouse gapes, and I force my gaze to stay locked on hers, because if I peek down the cups of her bra again, I might implode. “All that scowling can’t be good for your blood pressure.”

“You’re the one giving me a stroke.”

Her laugh is low, honeyed. “Poor thing!” She straightens up and simpers out with that lower lip. “Maybe you need a distraction. A ‘stroke’ isn’t such a bad idea, actually…”

I don’t flinch when her palm lands on my tie, fingers toying with the silk. But my breath hitches, betraying me.

She notices—of course she does. Her smile sharpens.

“Careful,ptichka,” I warn.

“Or what?” She tugs the tie, pulling me closer. Our faces are level now, her breath warm against my lips. “You’ll… spank me?”

My hand twitches, itching to grab her, to flip her over the desk and show her exactly what happens to brats who play with fire. But I stay rooted, muscles coiled, letting her think she’s in control.

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