Page 16 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied, but his voice had gone rough again at her proximity, at the way she was looking at him like he was something more than just the man who’d bought her at an auction. “We’re not clear yet.”
But as they stepped out into the cool Boston night, Matvei couldn’t shake the feeling that the most dangerous thing in his world right now wasn’t the men who’d been watching them in the club.
It was the woman in his arms, and the way she was making him feel things he’d never planned on feeling for anyone.
Chapter 7 - Irina
Irina had an education in reading danger that most finishing schools didn’t offer. She could recognize the difference between casual observation and professional surveillance, could spot the subtle tells that marked someone as a threat rather than just another club-goer. So when Matvei told her they were being watched, every instinct she’d inherited from her bloodline kicked into high alert.
The two men at the bar weren’t trying to hide their interest, which meant they were either amateurs or confident enough in their abilities that concealment didn’t matter. Neither option was particularly comforting.
“I see them,” she murmured against Matvei’s ear, her lips brushing the sensitive skin there as she spoke. She felt him tense at the contact, his hands tightening on her waist in a way that had nothing to do with the potential threat and everything to do with the electricity that always seemed to spark between them.
“Good girl,” he said, and the approval in his voice sent an unwelcome thrill down her spine. “Just keep dancing. We need to look natural.”
Natural. As if there was anything natural about the way her body responded to his proximity, the way every point of contact between them seemed to burn with its own heat. The music pulsed around them, a hypnotic rhythm that made it easy to lose herself in the moment, to forget about watchers and danger and the complicated web of lies that had brought them together.
Matvei moved with surprising grace for a man of his size, guiding her through the steps with the kind of confidence that spoke of extensive practice. His hands were warm and sure onher waist, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle that seemed to dwarf her despite her own considerable height.
“Where did you learn to dance like this?” she asked, genuinely curious despite their circumstances.
“My mother,” he said, and something in his voice made her look up at him sharply. “She insisted all her children learn proper ballroom technique. Said it was essential for business.”
The mention of his mother was unexpected, a glimpse into a more human side of the man who’d bought her at auction. Before she could respond, the crowd around them shifted, pressing closer as more dancers flooded onto the floor. The movement pushed her fully against Matvei, eliminating any pretense of space between their bodies.
The contact was electric. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her hips aligned with his, every inch of her front molded to his larger frame. She could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt, could smell the expensive cologne that couldn’t quite mask the purely masculine scent underneath.
“Irina.” Her name escaped his lips like a prayer or a curse, his hands sliding lower on her waist to grip her hips. The movement brought her even closer, close enough that she could feel the evidence of his arousal through their clothes.
The knowledge that she affected him as much as he affected her was intoxicating. For weeks, she’d been trying to maintain some semblance of control in their twisted relationship, trying to prove that she was more than just a pawn in his game. But here, now, pressed against him in the darkness of the club, control felt like an abstract concept.
The music shifted to something slower, more sensual, and Matvei’s movements adapted accordingly. His hands guided her hips in a rhythm that had nothing to do with dancing andeverything to do with the age-old push and pull between man and woman. She could feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of her dress, could imagine how they would feel against her bare skin.
“We should go,” he said, but his voice was rough with desire, and his hands made no move to release her.
“Should we?” The question came out breathier than she’d intended, her voice betraying the effect he was having on her.
In response, he spun her around so her back was pressed against his chest, his arms crossing over her stomach to hold her in place. The position was intimate, possessive, and completely inappropriate for their public setting. It was also the most aroused she’d ever been in her life.
His lips found her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he spoke. “The watchers are still here. We need to maintain our cover.”
Cover. Right. They were playing a role, pretending to be a couple in love rather than two people trapped in a marriage neither of them had wanted. The reminder should have been sobering, should have helped her regain some of her equilibrium.
Instead, it only made the fantasy more intoxicating.
His hips moved against her from behind, the motion subtle enough to look like dancing but intimate enough to make her gasp. She could feel every inch of him pressed against her, could feel the way his breathing had quickened to match her own.
“Matvei,” she whispered, not sure if she was asking him to stop or begging him to continue.
“I know,” he said, and his voice was strained with the effort of maintaining control. “I know, sweetheart. Just a little longer.”
The endearment, spoken with such raw honesty, nearly undid her completely. This wasn’t part of their act, nor was it for the benefit of any watchers. This was real, whatever was happening between them, and that knowledge was more dangerous than any professional surveillance.
The crowd pressed closer, forcing them into even more intimate contact. Matvei’s hands splayed across her stomach, his fingers dangerously close to the sensitive skin just below her breasts. She could feel his restraint in the careful way he held her, the visible effort it took for him to maintain the pretense of dancing rather than claiming her mouth the way his body was clearly demanding.
“We need to go,” he said again, but this time there was urgency in his voice that had nothing to do with their watchers and everything to do with the way she was grinding back against him with increasing abandon.
