Page 19 of His Grip

The corner of Viktor’s mouth lifted in a faint smirk. “Touché.”

She stood, the shirt shifting with her movements, rubbing against her thighs in a way that made Viktor’s blood hum. It stopped mid-thigh, the hem threatening to raise each time she took a step. He stifled a moan and willed his cock not to stretch out so painfully in his pants. She was barefoot, her steps soft against the hardwood floor as she approached him.

“You’re late,” she said, her tone accusing.

“I wasn’t aware I had a curfew,” Viktor replied.

She crossed her arms, tilting her head to the side. “No, but I thought you might actually want to have a conversation instead of idling in your office or disappearing to God knows where.”

The defiance in her tone was like a spark to dry kindling. Viktor felt the familiar pull, the dangerous, addictive need to push her, to see how far she would go before she broke—or burned. She was barely aware of how short the shirt was. It was either that, or she was ignoring it, each move a reminder of how light the shirt was and how little it would take to shrug it off. Her nipples teased Vitor through the sheer fabric, as if daring him to take a peek.

He approached, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “And what would you like to talk about, Mrs. Ivanov?”

Her lips parted, but whatever retort she had died on her tongue. Viktor’s stare narrowed down, catching the faint tremor in her lower lip. It wasn’t fear—it was something else, something that mirrored the heat coiling low in his own stomach and the aching need in his groin.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Maybe we could start with why you keep locking rooms in your own home. Or why do you have more security than most government buildings?”

Viktor chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Sofia.”

“Maybe,” she said, lifting her chin. “But I’m not afraid of you.”

Her pulse quickened beneath his touch, and Viktor found himself unable to resist the temptation any longer. His hand moved lower, tracing the soft curve of her breast through the fabric of the shirt. Sofia gasped, her eyes wide, but she didn’t pull away.

“Careful, Sofia,” Viktor murmured, his thumb grazing her nipple through the thin cotton. The sharp gasp escaping her lips was all the encouragement he needed to press closer, his free hand finding her hip and pulling her against him.

“You think you can provoke me with your games?” he asked, his lips so close to her ear. “You think I don’t see exactly what you’re doing?”

Sofia’s hands came up, her palms pressing against his chest, but it wasn’t a push—it was something else. Her fingers curled slightly, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself.

“I have no reason to provoke you. I can barely stand you,” she whispered, the unsteadiness in her sound seeping out.

Viktor’s mouth curved into a dangerous smile. His lips grazed her temple, then lower, tracing a slow, deliberate path to the corner of her mouth. But just as his lips hovered over hers, Viktor stopped. His hand slid from her breast, releasing her hip. The sudden withdrawal was deliberate, a calculated move that left her trembling and unsatisfied.

Sofia’s eyes flew open, confusion and frustration warring in her expression. Viktor took a step back, the space between them heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.

“Go to bed, Sofia,” he said, sounding colder now, more measured.

She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off with a sharp look.

“Now,” he said, the single word a command that brooked no argument.

For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes searching his face for something—weakness, maybe, or an explanation. But whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her because she turned on her heel and walked away, her head held high.

Viktor watched her go, his fists clenching at his sides. He was playing a dangerous game, one that threatened to consume them both. His legs ushered him up into his study, his mind weaving an intricate pattern in his head. The night outside was quiet, but Viktor’s thoughts were anything but. He poured himself a glass of vodka, the clear liquid catching the light as he stared out over the city skyline. Below him, New York pulsed with life, the chaos of its streets a mirror to the turmoil brewing within his own organization.

Alexei. Andrei. Even Konstantin. The pieces on the board were shifting, and Viktor was at the center of it all, holding the strings tighter than ever. But it wasn’t the chessboard of his empire that occupied his mind now.

It was her.

Sofia.

She was a fire he couldn’t extinguish, a spark that threatened to ignite something uncontrollable within him. The feel of her against him earlier, the way her body responded to his touch even as her words defied him—it was intoxicating. He wanted her in ways that defied logic, ways that made him question his own influence.

Viktor drained the glass in one sharp motion and set it down with a definitive clink. His penthouse, with its cold elegance and sharp lines, suddenly felt suffocating. The modern furniture, the meticulously curated art pieces, the expansive glass walls—they were all reflections of the life he had built. A life of power, precision, and dominance.

But tonight, for the first time in years, he felt a crack in it.

The sound of faint footsteps broke through his thoughts. He turned his head, his sharp focus locking onto Sofia as she appeared at the edge of the living room. She had changed—his shirt replaced by a silk camisole and shorts that left her legs bare.

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