Page 76 of The Pucking Arrangement

Chapter15

Seeing Red

Dmitri

The kitchen counter looks like a crime scene—casualties of rejected princess dresses strewn across it. Pink tulle. Purple sequins. Enough glitter to blind a man.

And my daughter?

My tiny tyrant stands among the wreckage, finally pleased with her dress. A sharp contrast to her feelings earlier in the day.

“No, Papa.” Ris had planted her hands on her hips, her expression an exact replica of Elena’s when she was not to be argued with. “It has to be the exact same color as Erin’s dress.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Amnushka?—”

“I told you this morning,” she had declared, her eyes gleaming with the confidence of a child who knows she’s already won. “She’s wearing red.” A dramatic wave toward the discarded pile. “These are all wrong.”

Of course she told me. And of course, I had to hunt for a specific shade of red while trying—and failing—not to think about Erin in said red.

Which is exactly why I spent my so-called nap calling in favors at three different children’s boutiques, explaining to several very amused store clerks that we needed an array of dresses in shades of red delivered this very afternoon.

The winner now hangs on the pantry door—a deep crimson confection that made Ris shriek with delight. Now she twirls in front of the fridge, the skirt billowing around her like falling rose petals.

“A perfect match?” I adjust my tie, needing something to do with my hands.

“Perfect!” She beams. “Now we just need?—”

“Erin?” The word comes out rougher than I mean it to. “We should leave soon.”

“Five minutes!”

Her voice drifts down the stairs, light and unconcerned, while my pulse hammers like I’m about to take a faceoff in overtime. I haven’t seen her since this morning. Since watching her play by the pool in the sunlight unraveled me.

I adjust Ris’s bow once more, ignoring the way my fingers aren’t quite steady. “Stay still, Amnushka.”

“But I’m so excited!” She practically vibrates. “Do you think Erin will let me help backstage? Can I hand her the music? Can I?—”

Footsteps on the stairs, and my hands freeze mid-bow. Fucking hell. I’m not prepared for this. The dress is ruinous.

A deep, sinful crimson that molds to her torso, sculpting every dip and curve before cascading in liquid silk down her legs. And the slit—fuck. It’s criminal. A scandalous slash up her thigh, indecently high, teasing me with every step. The fabric moves like smoke and sin, parting just enough to flash glimpses of bare skin, of long, toned legs that have no business being this exposed.

And judging by the slight tilt of her head, the smirk playing at her lips—she knows it.

One bare shoulder, the other wrapped in delicate fabric that begs to be nudged aside. Her hair swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck—that fucking neck.

The one that’s been haunting me since the museum. Since the first time I caught the faintest whiff of vanilla and wondered.

Wondered how she’d taste there, right where her pulse flutters.

Wondered what sounds she’d make if I tilted her head back, traced my mouth down the slope of her throat, tasted every inch of soft, heated skin until she gasped.

Then I make the mistake of looking down.

Her shoes—fuck me, her shoes.

Four-inch heels, delicate red straps winding around her ankles, showcasing the graceful cut of bone, the impossible slenderness of her legs. They bring her high enough that if I were to lean down just a little, her lips would be right there.

I swallow hard, my fingers twitching with the need to wrap around her ankle, to slide up the soft curve of her calf, feel the tension in her thigh as I press her back against the nearest surface.

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