How dare he?
Men. I was beginning to believe they were all cut from the same overinflated cloth. Strutting around as if the world was bent for them, as if we couldn't possibly breathe without their presence. When, in truth, it's the opposite. Even a man as powerful as Alexandre Barinov.
There he sat, right across from me looking like sin in his white button-up, sipping his wine as if he owned the night, the room and the very air between us. The way he calmly picked up his knife, cutting into his horribly plain steak as if he hadn't suggested something outrageous. Something that made my pulse trip and my dignity bristle.
I watched in stunned silence as he chewed, swallowed, existed. Every movement of his made the heat coil beneath my ribs. Anger, want...I could hardly tell the difference now.
"What do you say, Princess?" he taunted, his tone far too composed for a man proposing something so outrageous.
He really thought I needed him. Wanted him. As if I couldn't smother this ridiculous spark he kept igniting inside me. As if I would ever allow myself to become a distraction for a man who still yearned for his missing wife, not ten minutes earlier. And to make it worse, he had poured her favorite wine for the both of us.
The audacity of it all.
No wonder she had run. I would've sprinted.
"Do you know the weight of what you're suggesting?" I asked, letting my voice cut clean through the air between us.
"I think it's best we get this out of our system," he replied, leaning back in his chair like he wasn't shattering every boundary I've set. "Might even make your stay here...more enjoyable."
I pressed my lips into a thin line, heat rising in my chest. "Is that what you're planning to do with me? Why you kept me here? All because you wanted to sleep with me?"
His jaw ticked, as if the question hit closer than he expected.
"You can't even decide what to do with me now, can you?" I taunted, letting a sharp, sarcastic laugh slip out. "Might as well let me go, Alex. It's not like I'm of any use to you now...other than my body."
His gaze flicked up, slow and deliberate, before he brought the glass to his lips.
I shouldn't have looked. I knew I shouldn't have. But the way the wine clung to his mouth, staining it a deeper red, made my pulse stutter. For a split second, I wondered how it would taste mixed with him. Warm and intoxicating, forbidden.
I shoved the thought away with force.
"Is that so wrong?" he murmured, almost to himself, but the rumble of his voice curled through me like smoke. Like temptation.
I leaned back and crossed my arms, more to cage my own reaction than to look unbothered. "For one, you're still a married man. And I'm engaged."
A corner of his mouth lifted, dangerously close to a smirk. "Funny how that didn't stop you that first time."
Heat snapped up my spine, sharp enough to be fury, or want. I couldn't tell the difference anymore, and that only made it worse.
"I didn't know you were married that first time," I shot back, the words sharper than I intended, but not sharp enough to wound the look on his face.
"I didn't care that you were engaged," he replied, calm, unflinching, infuriatingly honest.
"Of course you don't."
My fingers tightened around the delicate stem of my wine glass, twisting it slowly, deliberately, as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded. "It's not like you've ever cared about the sanctity of commitment."
I drew a breath, lifted the glass and let the wine coat my tongue. Sweet, bold, indulgent. Anything to distract myself from the man watching me like he could taste my thoughts.
Then I met his eyes.
"Tell me, Barinov...what would your wife think if she came back and found out her husband was sleeping with his worst enemy?"
His jaw tightened. A small flicker, gone as quickly as it appeared.
"She's gone," he said quietly. "She's not coming back."
"How could you be so sure?" I let out a humorless laugh. "Is that what you think, now that you've got yourself a new pussy to fuck?"
"You tell me," he murmured, leaning forward, elbows on the table, those green eyes fixed on my mouth. "You can barely look at me without fucking me hard in your head."
Heat shot up my throat. Anger, humiliation, desire...all tangled into something volatile.
"Don't flatter yourself," I hissed.
"I don't need to," he said. "Your body does it for me."
My grip on the wineglass tightened. A tremor ran through my hand. Rage or restraint, I couldn't tell. Maybe both.
"You're unbelievable," I said, my voice cutting.
"And you," he countered softly, "are lying to the both of us."
The air thickened, hotter despite the sharp bite of wintry winds. The way his gaze dragged over my exposed skin like a touch I refused to feel. Slow, deliberate, intimate. It felt as if the world narrowed until there was only him and the unbearable heat between us.
I leaned in, refusing to look away, matching his intensity. "You want honesty? Fine. I would rather die than ever sleep with you again."
His eyes darkened. Not hurt, not anger, but something far more dangerous. It was like he didn't believe a single word I've uttered.
That was the final spark.
My hand moved before my mind caught up.
I lifted my wineglass and threw it at him. The dark red liquid flew, splashing across his face, down to his jaw and soaking into the pristine collar of his shirt. He didn't even flinch. Not an inch.
The satisfaction, however brief, was electric.
I pushed back my chair and rose, the legs scraping against the stone floor. The cold air hit me like clarity, as I turned on my heel like a coward that I am. I wanted to walk away. To escape, breathe, reclaim even a sliver of my control.
I only made it to three steps.
Before a hand closed around my wrist, firm and unyielding. I didn't even have the time to fight when he tugged, pulling me back with a force that stole my breath. The momentum spun me toward him, and in two strides, he had me pressed against the stone wall by the tall window that overlooked the dining room inside.
The cold surface kissed my back. But the heat of him caged my front.
He held my shoulders, his grip firm enough to hold me there, but trembling just slightly. Like he wasn't sure if he should touch me at all.
The space between us was indecently small, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him despite the winter air slicing across the patio. The way his soaked collar dripped against his neck, a dark line trailing down his throat. His breath mingled with mine, warm and rough.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice so low it almost broke before it reached me. "You're playing with the fire you still don't understand."
I lifted my chin, refusing to let him see how my heart was unraveling. "Let me go, Alex."
Something flickered in his eyes when I said his name. Raw and exposed. The way his green eyes darkened, then softened in a way that made my breath catch. And just as quickly, it vanished behind the hard, controlled mask he forced himself to be.
"No," he said quietly. "Never again."
My brows drew together, confused, despite a sharp unexpected ache twisting inside my chest. I didn't understand what he meant, but just as I parted my lips to ask, he had already crashed his lips on mine.
The kiss hit me like a storm. Desperation and longing, grief and hunger, all tangled into one impossible, shattering moment. It felt like he was reaching for something he had been starving for, and terrified of, at the same time.
I didn't know what to do, or what to feel. How to breathe. All I knew was the way my resolve slipped, layer by layer, as his mouth moved against mine. I could feel myself giving in, letting him take what he was reaching for, even if it broke me to do so.