Page 87 of Unveiled

"Makes perfect sense," he says with chilling precision. "Runthe bakery into the ground. Go out of business. That’s an excellent way to honor your mother."

Oh thearrogance.Before I know what I’m doing, I do exactly what I imagined—I fling the bread dough straight at his beautiful face. I hit dead center with an accuracy that makes my heart flip in my chest. Bull's-eye.

Semyon watches the dough that falls to the floor with a plop before he bends to pick it up. He tosses it in the garbage and then washes his hands slowly while my heart beats a frantic rhythm in my chest, and I pretend that I didn’t just throw food in his face like a child.

"Do you think your stubborn pride is going to save you?" he asks, his eyes flashing blue fire at me. "You’d rather close the doors of the bakery than admit you need help, wouldn’t you?"

He prowls closer to me. I stand my ground as my heart rate skyrockets. I cling to my apron, my fingers grasping at the edges as if, somehow, this thin piece of fabric is going to save me from him.

Nothing will save me from him. Not my pride. Not my family. Not my sharp tongue or wit.Nothing.

He takes a step forward, boxing me in against the worktable.

"Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t trap me in." The petulance in my tone has softened, but I’m still restless, still simmering with anger. Yet deep down, I can’t deny it—he’s right. Idolike it when he takes control. I’ve been holding onto control for so damn long, clinging to it like a buoy.

But now… it’s getting fucking heavy.

"It's not my control you hate,” he says with such quiet conviction it almost shakes me. “You're scared, Anya. Just admit it."

I shove him, my palms pressing hard on either side of his broad shoulders. It’s meant to say no, to push him away, but he doesn’t budge an inch. His eyes darken as his strong fingers wrap around my wrists like steel cuffs. Before I can process it, he spins me, my back hitting the cold steel door of the freezer. My breath catches.

I stay still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing what he does to me. But when his mouth finds my neck and kisses down to my collarbone, his teeth sinking into sensitive skin, I shiver. It’s punishing, a reminder of how easily he can overpower me.

Flour dusts our clothes as we give in to each other. He kisses me, and I'm kissing him back—angry and on fire—but a part of me admits I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to. I know he’s right.

"You might have a point, even if you're an asshole about it," I admit through clenched teeth.

"And you might have a point, even though you're a brat.” He tugs my hair and grips my ass hard before he lifts me, turns, and slides me onto the steel top of the worktable. I lose myself to him. I’m tugging on his shirt, eager to put my palms on the hard planes of his stomach as he’s unfastening and pushing down my pants.

“Leave the apron," he says in a low whisper. "I want the vision of your legs spread for me, your head tipped back while you come, every time I step foot in this fucking bakery."

My cheeks heat, and I smirk at him.

"That's so fucking dirty."

He lifts a shoulder.

“And?”

I shiver when his fingers tighten around my hips, planting me in place.

"You like it dirty, Anya. You just don't wanna admit it yet."

I’m half-tempted to push him away, to slap him, but the truth is I'm already soaking wet, aching for him. His hands slide up my hips, rough and deliberate, pushing my apron higher until it's bunched around my waist. Cool air meets my skin.

I arch my back, pushing against him. He groans low in his throat, a sound that goes straight between my legs, then cups my pussy with the heel of his palm, pressing to where I ache for him. I meet his gaze. This time, I don't look away from his ice-blue eyes.

"You still think you're in control?" He presses his palm harder, circling. I bite back a moan, aching for more.

"Maybe I am." I don't even recognize my voice. It's so low, so seductive.

Now he's moving again, trailing kisses and bites along my jawline, his stubble rasping against my skin. He shoves aside my panties, sliding his fingers into my wet cunt. I bite back a gasp. He doesn't rush—he's teasing me, ever the strategist, driving me insane. He knows just what moves to make.

"I want you begging," he whispers darkly. "By the time I'm finished with you, you'll forget you ever wanted control, Anya.”

His fingers dip beneath the fabric, and I cry out softly, clutching his shoulders as he swirls and strokes. He has me exactly where he wants me. With him, it doesn't feel like weakness. I feel wanted. Powerful.

He shoves his fingers back in my pussy, stroking in and out.

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