“I’m stronger than I look,” I say softly.
His eyes flicker down over my lips.
“I know.”
His jaw tenses for a moment before he turns away from me and walks away toward the teak wardrobe resting to the side of the room. Like he needs space to breathe.
“Get dressed and meet me outside for dinner,” he orders.
“What if I don’t want to have dinner with you?”
“I’m not going to force you. But even the strongest among us need to eat.”
Right on cue, my stomach rumbles slowly. I color with embarrassment, hoping he didn’t hear.
“Fine,” I say. “Then get out. I need to change.”
He stares soberly at me for one more long second. Then he turns and slips out of the room.
The moment the door shuts behind him, I exhale tiredly.
What is it about this man that makes me feel like I’m constantly on the edge of falling?
I open the wardrobe, not sure what to expect.
I definitely don’t expect what I find inside: a single dress.
It’s sleek, silky, and colored in the palest silver. The hemline is about knee length, but the back is almost completely open except for the thin, barely visible straps that hold it in place.
I’m surprised by how elegant it is.
I’m even more surprised to find that it’s in my size.
Had he picked the dress out for me himself?
Like everything else I’ve learned so far about Artem, it’s a baffling contradiction.
18
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.
What a bunch of bullshit.
In truth, it’s all merely a façade, a mockery that I don’t think Esme will appreciate.
I don’t know what has led me to tell her this way, but a part of me wants to parcel out the bad news by wrapping it in nice things.
As if I give a fuck what she thinks about all of it. About any of it.
As if her opinion matters in the slightest.
“Fancy meal for a prisoner,” says a voice from behind me.
I turn, more startled than I’d like to admit.
And I almost suck in my breath at the sight of her.
Esme looks like a mirage. An ethereal fairytale come to life.
The pale silver dress I picked out for her clings to her graceful curves. She’s kept her hair loose and it falls over her bare shoulders with careless ease.
She looks cautious as she steps out into the balcony, but by the time she settles into her seat, she has her features carefully composed once more.
Her eyebrows rise before she turns her gaze to me. “All this for me? You shouldn’t have.”
I don’t miss the sarcasm, but I choose to ignore it for now.
The erection that was driving me insane when I got dressed hasn’t gone away. In fact, it’s gotten noticeably worse.
“I like my guests to be comfortable,” I reply from where I’m standing.
She scoffs. “Now I’m a guest? That’s news to me. I don’t usually sedate my guests on their way over.”
I cross the open balcony and settle into the chair opposite of Esme.
“Call yourself what you want. It makes no difference to me. It doesn’t change what happens next, either.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “What happens next?”
I grin wickedly. “Dinner.”
She rolls her eyes and turns her attention to the floral centerpiece at the middle of the table. It’s a bouquet of pale roses with sharp thorns on the stems.
I should’ve had them removed. They send the wrong message.
I’m not trying to seduce
