He blows me off when I make dinner—just some heated soup—telling me he’ll eat later, so I eat with Nikolai, then go upstairs and take a long bath.
When I get out, I’m pretty much ready to burn the cocktail dress. I wash my little G-string panties in the sink and hang them up on the shower rod to dry.
I pull on the ugly fishing shirt, which is a boy’s size large. It doesn’t even cover my ass. It’s lame, even for a nightshirt. At least I won’t have to sleep in the dress again tonight although I might be more comfortable naked.
That thought makes me all fluttery—like sleeping naked in the same cabin as Dima means something might happen. And after our brief truce this afternoon, I desperately want something to happen. He’s been a dick, but now that the seed’s been planted that it may not be about my big fuck-up—that he may be acting from a frustrated desire for me—the need to verify that hunch is huge.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror and take in my appearance. My hair is up in a messy bun. The shirt is tight across my breasts, showing the stiffened peaks of my nipples. It falls below my waist, about to the crease of my hips, so my bare and freshly shaved lady parts just peek out beneath.
Walking downstairs like this would be daring.
I’m not demure, but I’m definitely no sex kitten either. But unraveling the mystery of Dima’s behavior makes it worth a try.
I head downstairs and walk past Dima where he sits with his laptop on his lap and some kind of action movie on the television. He doesn’t look at me as I pass.
Dammit.
I head into the kitchen in search of something sweet to eat--preferably chocolate. I search through the pantry, open and close every cabinet door, cataloging all the ingredients. And, if I’m honest, stalling. Because I don’t want to head back upstairs without getting what I came down here for—and it wasn’t just dessert. It’s a reaction from Dima.
“What are you looking for?”
I pause without turning when I hear his voice behind me. He’s in the kitchen with me. I make a show of opening an upper cabinet and standing on my tiptoes, reaching up to the highest shelves, which causes the already too-short shirt to ride up.
I hear Dima’s sharp intake of breath. “What are you doing?” He sounds choked.
I still don’t turn. This time I drop to my hands and knees to open a lower cabinet and stick my head inside. “I’m looking for chocolate.” I continue with my hunt, sitting back and shifting to ransack the next cabinet, even though I’ve already searched them all.
“What—what are you wearing?”
I stand and slowly turn, arranging my expression into innocence. “The shirt you bought me.” I slide my palms down over my breasts.
Dima’s eyes flare. His fingers clench into fists at his sides.
“It’s way too small.” I had no idea playing the coquette could be so fun.
“Gospodi, Natasha. What—where are your panties?” He spits out the question like getting the answer is a national emergency.
“I washed them in the sink and hung them up to dry. I only have one pair, obviously.” I bring my hands to my hips which lifts the shirt to my waist again.
Dima’s gaze flicks between my legs, and he grows pale. When his gaze flies back to my face, something he sees there makes it harden. “Oh, I see.” He strides toward me and catches my wrist, his brows down low. “I know what you're doing.” He yanks my body roughly up against his. “You're being a cocktease.”
I lift my chin and meet his blazing gaze with a defiant one of my own. That’s right. What are you going to do about it? I close the half-inch distance that lies between our bodies, letting my nipples brush against his hard torso.
His blue eyes darken, a menacing heat radiating from his lethal body to mine. He cocks his head. “You may not like the consequences, amerikanka.”
Try me. I slowly look down between our bodies to take in the bulge of his cock against my belly.
“Tormenting me will only get you punished again. Is that what you want? Should I put you on your knees to take care of this?”
With my gaze locked on his, I slowly lower to my knees.
“I don't like this side of you,” he mutters as I reach for the button on his jeans.
Ignoring the sharp stab of pain his words produce, I resolve to keep the upper hand. Because I do have it. I watched his control crumble before my eyes. Noted the effect of my body on his. I lower his zipper, freeing his cock. Gripping the base, I part my lips, slackening my jaw to show my tongue but stop before I make contact. “You do like this side of me,” I maintain, somehow making my gaze a challenge, even though I’m the one on my knees.