Page 67 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Artem

Back in my room, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and try to convince myself that the raging erection is purely a physical response.

That my desire is related only to the memory of that pussy clamping down on my cock.

Of those lips moaning while she came undone around me.

One goddamn hookup four months in the past shouldn’t be doing this to me. It’s infuriating.

But sooner or later, it’ll pass.

Though, “sooner” would be preferable.

I’m stronger than I look.That’s what she said to me.

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to reply with exactly what I was thinking.I know you are, darling. I know how that body feels in my hands. What it’s capable of. And I plan on pushing you to your limits.

Somehow, I’d swallowed those words—when all I wanted to do was devour her instead.

Next time, I might not be so lucky.

I adjust my suit jacket. After years of hating to dress up like my father always wanted, I’d found myself reaching naturally for it after leaving Esme’s room.

It feels… right.

The suit fabric is a deep navy blue, highlighted by the stark white shirt. Both tailored to perfection by the man my father keeps on staff for just that purpose.

I leave my bedroom and walk to the balcony.

I’d had a team come up while Esme was sleeping to arrange a table for dinner. The chef and the waiters are huddled in the kitchen now, putting the final touches on our meal.

I want this night to be as private as possible, especially considering the bombshell I’m about to drop on her.

No one will hear her scream from up here.

I step through the glass French doors.

“Fuck, I could use a drink,” I mumble to myself. A bottle of champagne cooling in the ice bucket calls to me, but I ignore it pointedly.

I want my head clear for what happens next.

Instead, I go to the balcony’s edge where I can see the city lights below. It’s a warm night and the moon overhead is bright and full.

I can practically hear Cillian cracking jokes, even though he’s not here.

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore…

“Shut up,” I growl under my breath.

The bastard is miles away doing fuck knows what, and irritating me anyways. Son of a bitch.

Sighing, I turn my back to the skyline and look once more at the dining arrangements.

The table is set for two. A cream-colored tablecloth sweeps close to the floor and the silver cutlery reflects the candlelight.

Smells waft out from the open kitchen window, mouth-watering and fragrant.

It’s romantic. Elegant. Refined.

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