Page 32 of Masked Seduction
Denis laughs warmly, clapping me on the shoulder as I head for the door. “See you Monday.”
I step outside into the bright Nevada sunshine, breathing deeply.
Family man or Bratva kingpin.
I can’t be both.
And as long as Jenna Ridley’s in the picture, I’m starting to fear I might not be either.
CHAPTER 11
JENNA
The angry buzz of my phone slices through my dream, yanking me awake so harshly I nearly roll straight off the mattress. I blink groggily at the dark ceiling, disoriented and frustrated. The room is still pitch-black, shadows looming around the edges.
My alarm is set for early, but definitely not this early. Squinting against the darkness, I roll over and grab my phone, fumbling as the harsh light from the screen blinds me momentarily.
It's not the alarm. It's worse.
A text message from Abram time stamped 5:37 a.m.
Be in the office by 6:45. I need your help preparing for an important meeting.
I stare at the screen, incredulous and still half-asleep.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" My voice is a raspy croak in the quiet bedroom.
I flop back against the pillows, tossing my phone toward the far edge of my mattress in protest. For a brief, rebellious moment, Iseriously consider ignoring it. Letting the text slip into oblivion and claiming I overslept when my actual alarm goes off in an hour.
It's tempting, deliciously tempting.
But I know it would never fly. Abram’s built-in bullshit detector is practically military-grade—he'd spot the lie the second I stepped through the office doors. There's not enough concealer in Vegas to hide how I'd blush under his scrutiny.
Besides, as much as Abram is a certified pain in the ass, he’s the best-paying pain in the ass I've ever worked for. Amazing salary, full benefits, bonuses that are practically scandalous. I can't afford to lose this job because I'm cranky from being dragged out of bed before sunrise.
Groaning in defeat, I roll out of bed, feet hitting the floor reluctantly. Goosebumps race across my thighs, exposed beneath my long, oversized sleep shirt. I shuffle toward the kitchen, yawning, already mentally calculating how little time I'll have for anything other than getting clean and dressed.
Coffee first. Always.
I punch the button on my Keurig, the comforting hiss and gurgle of water filtering through the otherwise silent apartment. The smell of French roast begins to trickle through the air, waking me enough to remember I should already be showering.Dammit.
As I step out of my clothes, the cool air sends another shiver racing down my spine. I glance toward the bathroom mirror, frowning slightly at my disheveled hair and sleepy expression. Turning on the shower, I let the hot water run, waiting for the bathroom to fill with steam before stepping in.
Waiting in the chilly air, my traitorous mind drifts—as it has obsessively all weekend—to Friday night.
It was amazing. More than amazing, actually. More like transformative. Heat rises to my cheeks, flooding my skin with a blush. I've relived every moment a thousand times since Friday—every touch, every sigh, every electrifying thrust.
I've had good sex before, but nothing like that. Nothing that intense or wild. Nothing so... overwhelming. That man, with his strong hands, sinful tongue, and perfect command of my body made every other man I've been with seem like amateurs fumbling in the dark.
Even now, days later, my body clenches at the memory of his mouth on me, his voice rasping that Russian word against my skin as he drove inside me, deep and mercilessly satisfying.
My stomach flips uneasily as the realization slams into me yet again. The details line up too well: tall, muscular, shaved head, meticulously groomed beard, a Russian accent slipping through when he lost control.
No. Absolutely not. It couldn’t have been.
I shake my head, stepping into the hot spray, gasping softly as the heat floods over my shoulders, washing away the chill from my skin but not the uncertainty in my mind.
Abram can't possibly be the only sexy, shaven-head, bearded man in Vegas who occasionally slips into Russian during sex. The odds seem slim, but this is Vegas. Weird coincidences happen here all the time.
