Page 151 of Wicked Proposal
“Beats me.” I shrug. “Replicants. Androids. Pokémon.”
With a final curve of his lips, he pushes on a tile.
And the wall. Freaking.Moves.
I catch my jaw before it can shatter on the floor. My eyeballs, too, lest they roll under the conveyor belts.
Because there’s conveyor beltseverywherein here.
The low whirring of printing presses catches my attention. “I assume you’re not making Peppa Pig stickers here?”
“I’m sure that could be arranged.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, steering me in the right direction. “Look closer.”
I lean over the railing and squint. From this high up, it’s hard to see the details, but at the same time, you just can’t miss it. Can’t mistake what they’re printing for anything else.
“Money,” I whisper.
“Bingo.” His palm moves to my back, rubbing circles into it. Soothing, maybe, or keeping me from bolting out the door with all his secrets. “Want a private tour?”
I shouldn’t. This is why spousal privilege was made, and guess what? Fake fiancées don’t have it. I should squeeze my eyes shut,plead the Fifth, clutch the concept of plausible deniability with both hands.
Instead, I freakingnod.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don’t get to explore that thought further, though. Soon, Yulian is guiding me down a steel staircase, each of my steps echoing like a gunshot. My pulse keeps thundering in my throat, louder with every heartbeat.
Am I afraid? Excited? A kinky mix of both I should probably bring up with a therapist?
I have no idea. All I know is thatthis—whatever it is—is Yulian, too.
And I want to know every part of him.
We get down to the conveyor belts. My eyes bulge when I realize just how many currencies are being slapped on what has got to be the most expensive stationery paper in existence: euros, pounds, francs, yen. Freakingrubles,too.
“No dollars?”
“I don’t shit where I eat.”
“Smart.” I shrug. “OSHA-compliant, too.”
He gives me a disbelieving laugh. “I’m showing you my secret dungeon. The least you could do is act cowed.”
“Oh, I’m cowed, believe me,” I reply, with a tone that isn’t cowed at all. “Full cow. One-hundred percent premium beef.”
“A nurseanda comedian. Talk about a triple threat.”
“What’s the third?”
Suddenly, Yulian’s palm crawls down to my ass. He squeezes. “Right here,” he drawls.
I bite my lip bloody not to moan. The way those hands are kneading me—God,where’s a bed when you need one? Or even a flat, non-moving surface without stacks of illegally forged foreign banknotes on it?
I’m about to settle for the floor when I realize we aren’t alone. “Dobryy vecher, pakhan.”
Yulian answers with a nod. Not for the first time, I wonder if it’s not too late to download Duolingo.
A few more men greet us as we pass, but not as many as I’d expected in a place this big.
