Page 14 of Shatter Me

My breath catches. “It doesn’t.”

“No?” His hand brushes my hip, feather-light. “Your pulse says otherwise.”

“Dmitri...” The warning in my voice sounds weak even to me.

His fingers trail up my arm, leaving fire in their wake. He leans closer, his breath hot against my neck. “Tell me to stop.”

I can’t form words. His scent surrounds me—expensive cologne and pure masculine musk. His lips hover just above mine, and I feel myself swaying forward?—

“Ms. Blackwood?” A flashlight beam cuts through the darkness. “Everything okay in here?”

I jerk away from Dmitri as Carl, the night security guard, appears in the doorway.

“Fine,” I manage, straightening my blouse. “Mr. Ivanov was just leaving.”

Dmitri’s eyes never leave mine as he steps back. “We’ll continue this discussion another time.”

I sink against my office wall after Dmitri leaves, my legs shaky. That final look he gave me—I’ve never seen his perfect control crack like that before. His eyes were dark and hungry. The way his eyes flashed when he pulled away...

The drive home is a blur. I can’t stop replaying the moment of his body pressing mine against the wall, the heat of his breath on my neck, and the need in his voice when he told me to tell him to stop.

My apartment feels too quiet, too empty. I strip off my clothes and step into a scalding shower, trying to wash away the lingering sensation of his touch. It doesn’t help. Water streams down my body, and all I can think about is his fingers trailing up my arm, his thumb pressing against my pulse point.

“Damn him,” I whisper, letting my head fall back against the tile.

My hand slides down my stomach of its own accord. I should stop. I shouldn’t let him affect me like this. But I can’t help imagining what would have happened if Carl hadn’t interrupted. Would Dmitri have kissed me? Would those perfectly manicured hands have torn my blouse open?

I bite my lip as my fingers find their target. In my mind, it’s his touch bringing me pleasure. His voice is in my ear, telling me how much I fascinate him. How my defiance drives him wild.

The water’s running cold by the time I finish. Shame and arousal war in my chest as I dry off. This attraction is dangerous—he’s dangerous. But with him on the museum board now, I’ll have to see him regularly. Deal with those knowing eyes, that controlled smile that promises sin.

I collapse into bed, still damp from the shower. Sleep feels impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—the crack in his perfect mask, the hunger he couldn’t quite hide. And worse, I know he saw the same need reflected in my eyes.

7

DMITRI

Iscan the bustling museum gallery, taking in the precise placement of each Renaissance masterpiece. The press clusters near the Botticelli, their cameras flashing as the museum director gestures animatedly. Old money mingles with new, and champagne flutes catch the light from the crystal chandeliers.

“Mr. Ivanov.” The curator’s assistant hurries over, clipboard clutched to her chest. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.”

I adjust my cufflink. “The board doesn’t require invitations.”

Her face flushes as she nods and scurries away. These events bore me, but I never miss an opportunity to observe. Especially when...

There she is. Natasha commands attention in a fitted burgundy dress, her hair swept up to expose the graceful curve of her neck. She’s explaining the exhibition’s significance to a group of potential donors, her passion evident in every gesture.

“Dmitri.” My brother Nikolai appears at my elbow. “Crashing another party?”

“It’s hardly crashing when I’ve contributed more to this institution than half these people combined.”

He follows my gaze to Natasha. “Ah. Now I understand why you’re really here.”

I ignore his knowing smirk and make my way through the crowd. Several people try to engage me in conversation, but I brush them off with practiced ease. The press is already taking notice of my presence—I can see them repositioning their cameras.

I approach while Natasha finishes with her donors, catching the tail end of her pitch. Her lips curve into that familiar sharp smile when she spots me—the one that’s half challenge, half warning.

“Mr. Ivanov. Stalking me at my own event now?”

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