Page 15 of Shatter Me

“Merely ensuring the board’s investment is well-represented.” I step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Though I must say, that dress is excellently representing other... assets.”

“How disappointing. I expected a more sophisticated line from you.” Her green eyes flash with amusement. “Your charm usually comes with more finesse.”

“Perhaps you bring out my baser instincts.” I offer her two fresh champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “Though I notice you haven’t moved away.”

She accepts the glass, her fingers brushing mine. “Maybe I enjoy watching you squirm when you can’t maintain that perfect control.”

“Is that what you think this is?” I lean in. “That I’m losing control?”

“Your tie is crooked.” She reaches up, adjusting it with deliberate slowness. “Very unlike you, Dmitri.”

My hand catches her wrist before she can pull away. “Careful, Natasha. Some might interpret that as an invitation.”

“And what would you interpret it as?” Her pulse races beneath my fingers, betraying her composed expression.

Her defiance sparks something wild in me. I lean in closer, my lips brushing her ear. “I’ve imagined you spread across my desk, that sharp tongue of yours put to much better use than these verbal sparring matches.”

Her breath catches. I notice the flush creeping up her neck.

“And when you get all righteous and indignant like this?” My fingers trail up her arm. “It makes me want to show you exactly what happens to women who challenge me.”

She pulls back, eyes wide. “Are you trying to get me to slap you again?”

The memory of her palm against my cheek sends heat through my veins. “Would you like to? Right here in front of all these people?” I trace my thumb across her lower lip. “Go ahead. Give them something to talk about besides the artwork.”

Her pulse still races under my grip, and I notice the dilation of her pupils and the way her chest rises with quicker breaths. Such telling signs. My Natasha, always trying to maintain that ice queen facade while her body betrays her every reaction.

“Your heart’s racing.” I slide my fingers from her wrist to her inner arm. “Tell me, is it fear or excitement?”

“Let go.” But she doesn’t pull away, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge.

“Make me.” I trace patterns on her skin. “We both know you don’t want me to.”

A shiver runs through her as I step closer, using my body to shield our interaction from prying eyes. The warmth of her seeps through my suit where we almost touch.

“Someone will see,” she whispers, but her head tilts back slightly, exposing more of her neck.

“Let them.” I brush my lips against her pulse point. “I want them to see who you belong to.”

Her fingers curl into my jacket. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

“No?” I drag my mouth up to her ear. “Then why are you pressing closer instead of pushing me away? Why can I feel you trembling?”

A small sound escapes her throat—halfway between protest and need. Her perfectly applied lipstick is slightly smudged, her composed expression cracking.

“I hate how you affect me,” she breathes.

“No, you hate that you can’t hide it.” I cup her face, thumb stroking her cheek. “That I can see right through every defense.”

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment before snapping open with renewed fire. But the sway toward me tells me everything I need to know.

“Excuse me, I need some air.” Natasha slips past me, her perfume trailing behind her as she heads down the west corridor.

I follow, my longer strides eating up the distance between us. She ducks into the curator’s office, thinking she’s clever. The door hasn’t even clicked shut before I push it back open.

“Running away, Natasha?”

She whirls to face me, chest heaving. “Stop following me.”

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