Page 5 of Shatter Me

There’s a hitch in her breath when I pull her even closer than is respectful, my hand sliding lower on her back.

“Getting comfortable?” I speak against her ear.

“You’re impossible.” But she doesn’t pull away.

“And you’re a terrible liar.” I spin her into another turn, letting my thigh brush between hers. “Your eyes give you away. Dilated with longing whenever I’m close.”

She stiffens. “You’re disgusting.”

“Am I?” I hold her more tightly. “I bet you’re dripping beneath that pretty dress right now.”

Her sharp inhale tells me I’ve hit the mark. Her fingers dig into my shoulder.

“You can’t just say things like that,” she hisses.

“Why not? We both know it’s true.” I let my lips brush her ear. “I can sense how you respond to me.”

"Stop it."

“Make me.” I pull back enough to meet her gaze, finding her pupils blown wide with desire. “Tell me I’m wrong, Natasha. Tell me you don’t think about me late at night, alone in your bed.”

Her cheeks flush crimson, but she holds my stare. “You’re a monster.”

“Yes,” I agree. “And yet here you are, pressed against me, getting wetter by the second.”

My hand slides lower, cupping her ass through the silk of her dress. “I bet you’re the type to beg so prettily when desperate.”

The crack of her palm against my cheek echoes across the dance floor. Several heads turn our way as Natasha wrenches herself from my grip, eyes blazing with fury.

“How dare you.” Her voice rises with rage. “I don’t care who you are or how much power you think you have. I’m not one of your possessions to paw at.”

She spins on her heel and storms off the dance floor, leaving me with my cheek stinging. Her perfect polish has cracked, revealing something far more fascinating beneath.

I touch my face, still feeling the sting of her hand. No one has dared strike me in years. The last person who tried ended up in the East River.

Watching her retreating form and the way her spine remains ramrod straight even as she practically vibrates with anger stirs something primal in me. She’s not cowed by wealth or power, not impressed by my name or reputation.

Most women throw themselves at me, eager to catch an Ivanov’s attention. Instead, Natasha Blackwood slapped me in front of half of Boston’s elite and walked away like I’m nothing.

I can’t tear my eyes away as she grabs her clutch from our table and heads for the exit. The rhythm of her hips carries a sense of empowerment rather than apprehension.

Fascinating.

3

TASH

Iscan the acquisition proposal on my desk, sipping coffee. The Petrov collection is arguably the finest assemblage of imperial Russian art outside the Hermitage. My curatorial team has spent months explaining why our museum should house it.

A knock at my office door breaks my concentration. “Ms. Blackwood, the board meeting is starting in five minutes.”

“Thanks, Sarah.” I gather my materials, straightening my jacket.

The boardroom falls silent as I enter. And there he is—Dmitri Ivanov, lounging in one of the leather chairs like he owns the place. He practically does because of his recent “generous donation” to become a board member. Trust him to decide to taunt me by entering my safe space. The place where I work.

His ice-blue eyes lock onto mine. “Please, Ms. Blackwood. Tell us about this fascinating collection.”

I launch into my presentation, keeping my voice steady despite his predatory gaze. “The Petrov collection represents a unique opportunity?—”

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