Priceless (Ruthless Doms 1)

"Maybe I will," I reply. If I can get away from my bodyguard, that is.

"Maybe you will what?" Nicolai is standing right there. Of course he is. I feel heat creep up my neck to my cheeks.

"Nothing," I toss over my shoulder, sliding into the car when he opens the door for me, but he gives me that probing look only I’m all too familiar with.

"Marissa," he warns, and hell, the way he says my name, that warning tone of his, makes my body react of its own accord. I close my eyes as a rush of heat flares across my chest, my heartbeat accelerates, and my breathing becomes ragged. From his voice. I can't understand why I react this way when he goes all stern and dominant on me. Why it excites me but incites fear, too, like standing at the very edge of a cliff.

"Nicolai," I singsong back, my voice a little wobbly. I won't look at him. I know those ice-blue eyes too well. Just meeting his gaze will betray too much.

My inner thoughts. My plans. My feelings toward him.

"Answer me," he says, and then he does the very thing he shouldn't. He touches me, grasping my elbow.

My skin's on fire, my pulse racing so hard and fast I can't fight the heady feeling he gives me. God, he smells so good, all masculine and powerful. Though he's barely touching me, it’s like his fingers brand my skin. Every cell in my body snaps to life with vivid, visceral awareness.

I sigh, and though it kills me, shrug him off. "Nowhere, Nicolai. I'm going to my party. Okay?"

He climbs in the car, looks both ways, then shuts the door, because that's what he does. The constant vigilance can be a bit stifling.

When he takes his seat, he sits as far away from me as possible, in the corner of the small interior.

"Buckle your belt," he mutters.

"Fuck you," I mutter under my breath, not even thinking about what I'm saying.

That gets his attention.

"Excuse me?"

The sharp tone does nothing to quench the raging fire being in his near proximity causes. To save me from dying of mortification, I take out my phone and pretend I didn't just curse at Nicolai. I have literally dozens of missed texts and notifications, mostly from the graduation, and I'm going through each one when my phone vanishes from my fingers.

"Hey!"

Nicolai's molten gaze makes my heart stutter to a stop.

"Care to repeat what you just said?" he asks. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

"Actually, no," I quip, reaching in vain for my phone. "Give me that!"

He raises a dark brow at me, and I swallow hard.

He's like the polar opposite of my boyfriend. Eric's long hair is sort of rockstar-ish, whereas Nicolai's head is shaved. Eric wears loose, comfortable clothing—he's an artist—and Nicolai's dark, fitted clothing hugs his thick, powerful body like a glove, his muscles defined and intimidating. Eric quotes poetry and talks about anything and everything, and Nicolai says as little as humanly possible in his thick Russian accent.

Eric is a boy... and Nicolai is a man.

Oh hell, is he a man.

"I don't care if you think you're all grown up now that you have a diploma," he says in a clipped tone, his nostrils flaring, betraying his temper. "I won't allow you to speak to me that way."

My body is an electric wire, humming with need and want and shame and something deeper... darker... something I can't put my finger on.

"Really," I sputter. "And what are you going to do about it? Ground me?" Like a petulant child I cross my arms on my chest. "You can't—discipline me."

At most, he reports what I've done to my father, which is infinitely worse, so I shouldn't be poking the bear. And even as I'm challenging him, I'm ashamed of the way I'm behaving. I pride myself on being more mature than the silly girls in my class, and yet...

"Isn't that the truth," he says softly. "If I were you, I'd consider myself lucky that's the case."

I blink, and my pulse races impossibly faster.

There's nothing sexual about this encounter at all, and yet—why does excitement race through me like this? Why do I feel like I'm spiraling out of control, into the unknown?

"Then give me my phone, please," I say in a whisper.

"Apologize, Marissa," he orders, holding my gaze.

"I'm sorry." I acquiesce without a second thought, and it's not just because I want my phone. I don't like making him angry. And I don't like the way his stern correction is making me feel like I'm losing all control. I need to end this confrontation, and now.

He hands me my phone back, then takes his out, punching out a text so angrily I swear he'll break the damn screen. Something's under his skin, and I have no idea what. It can't just be me, is it?