Page 5 of Dirty Damage

Oleg looks at me.

Raises one eyebrow.

Waits.

“There was a spill in the daycare,” I finally manage to splutter out. “The A/C’s broken, renovations everywhere, we needed showers, Mara suggested… Sorry. I didn’t mean to be in here. It’s just?—”

“You work at the daycare?” His eyes are still doing that thing where they seem to be memorizing every inch of my exposed skin.

And, for its part, my exposed skin seems to be doing that thing where it’s going up in flushed tingles everywhere his eyes look.

It’s a fucked-up kind of dance, if we’re being honest. I want off this ride. My hormones need to check themselves before they wreck themselves.

Because the way Oleg Pavlov’s biceps flex as he crosses those massive arms over his chest? Pure sin. The kind of sin that got Eve kickedoutof Eden.

The kind that would have me living in a cardboard box behind a Wendy’s if I let my libido do the driving.

I clutch the paper towels tighter, desperately grateful that at least the stupid Belle costume covers most of my southern regions.

But my traitor nipples are staging their own rebellion, and his eyes miss nothing as they rake over me from head to toe.

But in the immediate wake of this arousal I never wanted nor asked for, irritation flares.

I’ve worked at Pavlov Industries for eight months. I’ve seen Oleg in the hallways, at company functions. I even handed him a coffee once when his assistant was in the bathroom.

But of course he doesn’t recognize me—I’m just another invisible worker bee. A grunt. An NPC. Toilet paper stuck to his shoes.

“You might recognize me if you looked at my face, Mr. Pavlov.” The words fly out before I can stop them, bristling with fatigue and frustration.

His mouth quirks up at one corner. Not quite a smile.

But notnota smile.

“I might recognize you if you were wearing actual clothes and not paper towels. And if you were working where you’re supposed to be working.”

Touché.

But before I can respond, Chloe tugs on his hand. “Fix her zip, Mr. Beast!” she demands, pointing at my back.

My face blazes hotter. “That’s really not necessary?—”

“Turn around.”

Two words. Simple, terse—and utterly undeniable.

My body wants to obey before my brain can catch up, which is exactly the kind of response I’ve spent two-plus years training myself out of. Men who expect instant compliance are men who take miles when given inches.

But he’s still my boss.

And I’m still trapped in this polyester disaster.

His footsteps approach. One heartbeat. Two.

Then heat radiates against my back as he steps closer, and my whole body goes electric.

The zipper gives way with a decisiverrrrrip. Cool air hits my overheated skin as the bodice peels away, and I just manage to catch the costume before it drops past my hips.

Paper towels still clutched to my chest, I try not to breathe in his scent.

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