Page 30 of Shatter Me

“Should,” she agrees, nipping at my bottom lip. “But you won’t.”

She’s right. I know at this moment that I won’t be leaving her tonight. Not when she’s looking at me like that, her lips swollen from my kisses, her body still bearing the marks of my possession.

I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers as I back her against the desk again. Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer.

No, I definitely won’t be making it home tonight. Not when there’s more of Tash to explore, taste, or claim.

12

TASH

Iwake with a start, my back protesting from the awkward position in my leather office chair. Soft morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across my desk. I’m alone.

My hand brushes against a cashmere throw that wasn’t there before—one that carries his scent. Dmitri must have covered me before he left. The thought brings a rush of memories from last night...

His hands gripped my hips and held me against the mahogany desk. His arctic blue eyes darkened with each kiss. He whispered Russian endearments against my skin. The strength of his arms held me close after, both of us catching our breath.

“Stay,” he’d murmured, pulling me onto the leather couch in the corner. His usual perfect composure had cracked, revealing something underneath. For once, the mask slipped.

I stretch, and my muscles are pleasantly sore. Papers from last night’s acquisition proposal are scattered across the floor—we’d knocked them off the desk in our haste. My cheeks heat at the memory.

The clock on my desk reads six forty-seven a.m. Early enough that no one else will be in yet. I gather the fallen papers, straighten my skirt, and check my reflection in the window. My lipstick is gone, and my hair is a mess despite my attempts to smooth it.

The cashmere throw still smells like his cologne. I fold it carefully, unsure whether to be unsettled that he let me sleep rather than wake me.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I look at it.

Coffee on your desk. See you at the board meeting at 9.

Sure enough, a steaming cup from my favorite cafe is still hot. Dmitri must have just dropped it off. My stomach flips that even he knows my order.

I sink back into my chair, wrapping my arms around myself. The night replays in my mind—his touch, his voice, how he’d finally surrendered control. The vulnerability in his eyes before I’d drifted off in his arms.

I pull my emergency outfit from the hidden garment bag behind my filing cabinet—a navy St. John knit dress that’s boardroom-perfect. The fabric feels cool against my skin as I smooth it over my hips. Thank God I keep spare clothes here.

My makeup bag yields enough products to make me presentable. The woman in the mirror looks polished and professional—not like someone who spent the night thoroughly ravished in her office.

I spread the acquisition documents across my desk, highlighting key points for the presentation. The coffee Dmitri left is perfect—an oat milk latte with an extra shot. The fact that he knows exactly how I take it sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

At eight fifty-five, I stride into the boardroom. Dmitri’s already there, pristine in a charcoal Armani suit, not a hair out of place. He doesn’t even glance up from his phone.

“Good morning, Ms. Blackwood.” His voice is cool and professional. No hint of the man who whispered dirty words against my skin hours ago.

“Mr. Ivanov.” I take my seat across from him, spreading out my materials.

I grip my pen so hard it nearly snaps as Dmitri dissects my proposal with surgical precision. His tone is pure ice—nothing like the heat from last night. No trace of the man who touched me like he was starving.

“The provenance documentation seems incomplete.” He taps the folder with one manicured finger. “We’ll need a more thorough analysis of the collection’s history.”

My cheeks burn in indignation. How dare he sit there, criticizing my work like he didn’t have me moaning his name hours ago? Like he didn’t leave me sleeping alone in my office with nothing but a throw blanket?

“Perhaps Ms. Blackwood could elaborate on the authentication process?” His blue eyes meet mine, completely devoid of emotion.

I feel the eyes of the board members fix on me expectantly. I force my voice to stay steady. “The Petrov collection has been extensively verified by multiple independent experts. Their reports are included in Appendix C.”

“Hmm.” He flips through the pages, his expression bored. “These certifications appear outdated. We’ll need current documentation before proceeding.”

My blood boils. He knows damn well those certifications are valid—we discussed them in detail. Now, he’s deliberately undermining my work.

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