Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession 1)

“We usually eat breakfast at eight and lunch at twelve-thirty. Does that work for you?”

“Absolutely.” If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past month, it’s that food, anytime, anywhere, of any variety, works for me.

A full stomach is something I’ll never take for granted again.

“Good. Then I’ll see you at lunch today.” He turns to walk away, and I exhale a shaky breath, again relieved and perversely disappointed—only to have my heart miss a beat as he stops and faces me again.

“Almost forgot,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Your new clothes are getting delivered this afternoon. Pavel will bring them up to your room, and I’d appreciate it if you wore one of the dresses for dinner.”

“Oh, sure. Thank you. I will.” One of the dresses? How many did he buy? And how is he getting them delivered so fast? I’m dying to ask, but I don’t want to prolong this nerve-racking encounter.

I’m still cognizant of that closed door.

“Good. Let me know if something doesn’t fit.” His gaze travels over my body, and the icy-hot prickles return, my breathing turning shallow as my nipples tighten in my bra. Another thin cotton bra that’s doing little to hide my reaction. My face burns with the heat of a thousand suns, and as his eyes meet mine again, I feel the shift in the atmosphere, sense the air taking on that dangerously electric charge.

Mouth dry, I take a half step back, though what I really want is to lean toward him. The pull is so strong it’s like a physical force—and judging by the way his jaw flexes as he watches my retreat, I’m not alone in experiencing it.

Run, Chloe. Get out.

Mom’s voice is quieter this time, less urgent, but it clears away some of the haze in my brain. Gathering the withering shreds of my willpower, I take another step back and say as evenly as I can manage, “Thank you. I will.”

His nostrils flare, and I again have the sense of being in the presence of something dangerous… something dark and savage that lurks underneath Nikolai’s urbane veneer.

“All right,” he says softly. “Good luck with your laundry, zaychik. I’ll see you soon.”

And opening the door, he walks out.

17

Nikolai

I abstain for all of fifteen minutes after I get to my office. I check my email, pay a few invoices, fire off a reply to one of my accountants. Then, cursing under my breath, I turn up the sound on my laptop and bring up the camera feed from my son’s room.

As expected, Chloe is there, having finished her task in the laundry. Hungrily, I watch as she plays cars and trucks with Slava, speaking to him the entire time as if he can understand her. Every once in a while, she points at something like a wheel and makes Slava repeat the English word after her, but for the most part, she just talks—and Slava listens to her raptly, as fascinated by her facial expressions and gestures as I am.

At one point, he laughs at the way his truck overtakes her car, and she grins and ruffles his hair, her slender fingers casually sliding through his silky strands. My chest squeezes painfully, my lust for her mixing with intense jealousy. I don’t even know which of them I envy more—Slava, for experiencing her touch, or Chloe, for winning my son’s affections. All I know is I want to be there, basking in her sunny smile, hearing my son’s laugh in person instead of through the camera.

Fuck.

This is pathetic.

What am I doing?

I move to close down the feed but stop at the last second, hovering the cursor over the X. She’s opened a book and is reading to Slava now, her voice a soft, slightly husky croon that makes me want to burst into my son’s room, snatch her up, and carry her off to bed. I want to hear that voice moan my name as I drive into her tight, wet heat, to hear her plead and beg as I take her to the brink over and over before finally granting her the sweet mercy of release.

I want to torment her nearly as much as I want to fuck her, to make her pay for making me feel this way.

Clenching my teeth so hard I risk a toothache, I close the screen and propel myself to my feet. Despite the largely sleepless night I had, I’m brimming with restless energy. I need another hard run, or maybe a sparring session with Pavel.

I cast a glance at the clock above my office door.

Less than an hour before lunch.

Pavel is likely busy preparing food, and if I go for the kind of long, hard run I need, I won’t have a chance to shower and change before it’s time to join everyone at the table.