Page 60 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
Even if what she’s choosing… is starting to look a hell of a lot like me.
***
When dinner is nearly over, the waiter appears with dessert. As he sets down her plate, his elbow catches her wine glass. Red liquid splashes across the table and down the front of her dress before either of us can react.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Yuri!” he blurts, eyes wide with panic. “I’ll—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in coolly. “Get some club soda. A towel.”
He scurries off, visibly sweating. I turn to Yulia.
She’s already dabbing at her dress with her napkin.
“Let me,” I say, rising as the waiter reappears with supplies. I take the towel, dip it, and move around the table.
She watches me warily. “I can do it.”
“I’ve got it.”
I kneel beside her chair.
The wine’s soaked through the fabric across her lap and—fuck—the curve of her breast where the neckline dips. I hesitate, towel in hand, pulse thick in my throat.
I start with her thigh. Press the damp cloth against the spill, careful but close. Her skin is warm beneath the dress. Silky. She shifts slightly, and my hand almost slips higher than it should.
Her breath catches. Mine does too.
I move to the stain on her chest.
When our eyes lock, everything between us stills.
I press the towel to the swell of her breast, careful, respectful—but her nipple tightens beneath the fabric, and my knuckles graze the edge of it.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” I murmur, not sorry at all.
“It’s…fine,” she whispers, her pupils blown wide.
I linger half a second longer than I should. Then I pull back, place the towel on the table, and return to my seat like I didn’t just mentally map every inch of her skin.
The air between us is charged. Raw.
She clears her throat. “You mentioned a surprise?”
I nod, needing the shift. “Finish your dessert. We’re not far.”
***
Twenty minutes later, we’re back in the car, driving through a part of Boston she doesn’t seem to recognize. We pull up to a nondescript building—three stories, brick facade, windows darkened. Nothing special from the outside.
“What is this place?” she asks as I help her out of the car.
“Something I’ve been working on. Come see.”
I unlock the front door, leading her into a space that looks nothing like the exterior suggests. The lobby is sleek and modern, featuring freshly painted walls, marble floors, and recessed lighting. It’s empty now, but the idea is there.
“Is this... a medical facility?” she asks, looking around with growing interest.
