Page 33 of Gloves Off

“You can’t be surprised. You should be thrilled, actually, that you have such a stylish and hot wife.”

His eyes cut to me, his eyes raking over me like I’m wearing a dirty, grease-stained paper bag instead of yoga leggings and the cute windbreaker I wear to soccer practice.

Fuck him, I look great.

“The kind of woman I usually go for doesn’t need expensive shoes to feel confident.” His cold gaze is steady on me. “It comes off as insecure.”

My lips part.Insecure?My vision goes red with rage. I just—he’s so fucking—I can’t. He’s a fucking asshole. Heat rises to the surface of my skin and an angry knot tightens in my throat, but I send him a cool smile, like his words bounced right off me.

“The men I’m with usually don’t mind. In fact,” I lower my voice, lean closer, and hold his cold gaze, “they love my heels.Fuck-meheels, they call them.”

Men? What men? I haven’t slept with someone in forever. Volkov doesn’t know that, though, and I’m hoping what he doesn’t knowwillhurt him.

He glowers down at me, a muscle tight in his jaw. “Those guys are going to have to wait until this arrangement is over.”

Again, what guys? But something in the controlling, commanding way Volkov says this turns a knife in my stomach.

“That wasn’t part of the deal. And besides,” my voice is light and casual, and I’m winning this argument so hard, “why should my beautiful shoes go to waste?” Our gazes are locked, and a weird, tense energy snaps between us. My skin feels hot and prickly. “No, Volkov, I’m going to be wearing my fuck-me heels all year long.”

“No fucking other guys,” he bites out, eyes raging.

Are we standing closer than before? Blood pounds in my ears. “Oh, I’m going to.”

I don’t know what I’m saying. Of course I’m not going to sleepwith other guys and screw everything up, but Volkov telling me what to do inthattone makes me want to scream. My emotions are at the wheel, joyriding.

“I’m going to fuck every guy I want. Every guy Imeet.”

What?I’m acting ridiculous, but I can’t stop. I’m possessed with the need to piss him off. Volkov’s jaw looks so hard it could crack.

“I’m going to be out every night in a short dress and my sparkly little fuck-meheels, gettingrailedby some nameless guy while he gives me mind-blowing orgasms.”

Like that would ever happen. The only guy who’s ever been able to make me come is rechargeable and safely tucked in my nightstand, but wounding Volkov’s overinflated ego makes my heart pound so hard I swear he can hear it.

I feel sick. Or excited. Or like I could fly or fight a lion. Fighting with Volkov is like a drug.

“No.” He swallows, towering over me, and his lethal expression sends a shiver down my spine. “You will not.”

The air between us feels flammable.

“Yes,” I whisper, “I will.”

“You’re going to jeopardize everything.”

“I’ll be discreet.”

We’re inches apart. His eyes flick down to my mouth. Something cutting and hot surges through me, spiraling and sparking. His scent is in my nose—sharp, masculine, and dominant—and the back of my neck tingles.

This year is going to be hell, but I won’t back down. I won’t let him win.

“I’m going out.” I give him my most charming smile, like I’m not replaying the wordinsecurein my mind like a broken record.

“Now?”

He raises an eyebrow. God, I hate when he does that. It’s his sign that he thinks I’m making the wrong choice. That I’m just a dumb little woman with a dumb little woman brain.

“Yes. Now.”

“The dinner is in?—”

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