The Professional (14 page)

When Kovalev pulled out the chair to his right for me, he said under his breath, “Anything amiss?”

I murmured back, “Not at all.”

Filip followed, taking a seat beside me. With a laugh, he muttered, “That was awkward, huh?”

When Sevastyan returned to the table and took the seat opposite me, his face was his usual unreadable mask, but that muscle in his jaw was twitching.

Kovalev introduced me to the rest of our dinner companions, more than two dozen men in their twenties and thirties—Yuri, Boris, Kirill, Gleb, then I started losing track. They were a rough-looking lot, but they all appeared to hero-worship Kovalev. Only two other women were seated, Olga and Inya, long-term girlfriends of a couple of the brigadiers.

After introductions, what seemed like an army of servers began conveying platters, while others poured vodka into glittering crystal shot glasses. Though I wasn’t used to being on this end of service, I forced myself to relax.

“A toast,” Kovalev called, drink in hand. “To my lovely daughter. Who found me against all odds, who toiled and fought to get what she wanted.”

Filip called, “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

When the dinner guests raised their glasses, I did the same, then brought it to my lips to sip—

Everyone shot theirs, then turned to me. I recalled it was considered rude to put a glass with alcohol back on the table. With a shrug, I downed mine too, and cheers broke out. I couldn’t help but grin, glancing at Sevastyan, who simply stared at me.

I could’ve sworn he’d been jealous of Filip earlier, but if he gave a damn, then why hadn’t he bothered to come get me from my room in the first place?

In any case, I refused to let him ruin this for me. Here I was at an authentic Russian banquet, drinking vodka with my father’s extended . . . clan. I was in the land of my birth, ensconced in a former tsar’s home.

I gazed up, marveling at the frescoes above us. This absolutely looked like the dining room of a tsar. I realized I’d never
felt
history like this. Which took some of the sting out of my involuntary withdrawal from school.

Tonight, my good mood was bulletproof.

Another toast followed:
“Za vas,
Natalya Kovaleva!” To you. This time I got my shot down in time with the table. I savored the burn, pleasantly warmed.

When a
zakuska
—a spread of miscellaneous appetizers—was served, Filip leaned over. “This is called a
za-kus-ka
.”

Sevastyan said, “Natalie studied Russian—I’m sure she knows what it is.”

I cast him a quick look of appreciation. Having every dish explained to me would’ve gotten old.

Filip’s affable mien never faded, even as he said, “It’s merely etiquette, Sevastyan. To be welcoming to a guest—escorting her from her room and such.”

Thanks for reminding me.

The two men stared each other down. The tense moment was broken by another serving: oysters topped with plentiful caviar from the Volga Delta. Then a fish course followed.

I took a bite of heavenly baked sole, making a sound of delight; Sevastyan’s eyes were on me.

I shot another vodka; his eyes were on me.

I listened to a story Filip seemed determine to whisper to me; Sevastyan clenched a fist beside his plate. He could assure me that there was no
us
all he wanted to, but . . .

Actions speak louder than words, Siberian.
And his focus on me was warming me as much as the vodka.

When servers brought yet another dish, Kovalev announced, “In honor of Natalie’s home of Nebraska.”

It was corn soufflé! I grinned at him. “I love it.” I was beginning to sound crazy tipsy.

Then I felt Sevastyan’s dark gaze on me yet again. Was he remembering the cornfield? Pinning me in the dirt? Meeting his eyes, I downed another shot.

Kovalev turned to Sevastyan. “You’re not eating, Aleksandr?”

He straightened. “Perhaps I’m feeling the trip.”

Filip quipped, “Or your age.”

With his quiet intensity, Sevastyan said, “I hold my own.”

In a merry tone, Kovalev said, “There now, lads.” He turned to me. “I think our clever Filip sometimes forgets the Siberian was a bare-knuckle prizefighter for many years.”

I raised my brows. When I’d first seen Sevastyan, I’d guessed he was a fighter. That would explain the scars on his fingers, his broken nose. I recalled the many times I’d seen Sevastyan ball his fists. For a fighter, that must be the default factory setting.

When I thought of all the men who’d struck that noble face of his, I wanted to touch him, to smooth my fingers over his skin. I was trying to imagine him in the ring, dealing pain, when another course appeared.

Dessert. There were baked apples, fruit pastels—a kind of Russian Turkish delight—and
sirniki
, a cheese pancake with a side of honey for dipping. As soon as my first pastel touched my tongue, I rolled my eyes with bliss.

After dessert, drinks reigned and laughter grew boisterous. It was bad etiquette not to finish an opened bottle of vodka, so everyone politely pounded shot after shot—well, everyone except for Sevastyan. After the toasts, his glass went untouched.

Paxán recounted hilarious tales of his attempts at leisure. Sailing? The boat was now an artificial reef. Breeding horses? He’d find that wily escaped stallion one of these days.

I laughed until my eyes watered, admitting that I’d thought he would have white tigers and a bear—
and
a diamond-encrusted toilet, which made Kovalev double over.

The guy named Gleb taught me a Russian tongue twister. Everyone laughed at my buzzed rendition, but I was a good goddamned sport, so I feigned a quick curtsy. I saw that even Sevastyan’s customary scowl had changed to a look of something like fascination, as if I were a creature he’d never seen in the wild before.

Every time I grew convinced I couldn’t break through his icy reserve again, he’d show hints of the man beneath the enforcer façade. . . .

I wished I could freeze time—couldn’t remember when I’d last had such a fun night—but before I knew it, a grandfather clock struck midnight.

Paxán stood. “Well, my friends and family”—he smiled at me and Sevastyan—“you’ll have to excuse me.”

A chorus of “One more drink!” rang out.

He shook his head. “Take pity on an old man! And continue—that’s an order.” Sevastyan and I rose at the same time, both intending to walk Paxán out.

“Sit, sit, you two. Enjoy yourselves. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I watched Paxán strolling away, I didn’t want to let him out of my sight. I had the feeling that he might disappear. But
then Sevastyan gave me a reassuring look, as if he understood what I was feeling. It helped.

After that, drinks continued to flow. The hour grew late, but I didn’t care because I didn’t have work tomorrow, didn’t have to deal with first-year students spinning tales about why their papers were late.

My only complaint? I wanted Sevastyan to talk to me, to flirt with me. To touch me. I desired more of what he’d shown me the night before.

I wanted sex with him.

Craved it.

I’d been reminded of how relentless I could be; maybe I should pursue
him
relentlessly?

To my right, Filip and some brigadiers got into a heated debate about the fastest sports car—which gave me an opportunity for mischief. I was intoxicated enough that the idea of teasing Sevastyan seemed
brilliant
.

Though he’d warned me that he didn’t like surprises, I slipped off one heel, then stretched my hosed foot toward his legs. I made contact with his inner thigh, right above his knee. He tensed, but didn’t give me away, just cast me that menacing look.

Was it a good idea to play with an enforcer like him? Vodka said,
Hell, yeah, touch his badge!
I reached higher. With each inch closer I got to his dick, his breaths came quicker. He gave a forceful shake of his head.

With a lazy grin, I dipped my forefinger into a honey pot, then sucked it between my lips, my smug expression saying,
Whatcha gonna do, Siberian?

His own lips parted. Recalling me sucking him the night before?

Higher, higher . . .

Contact.

God, he was burning hot, hard as iron. He tilted his head sharply, his nostrils flaring. And for a long moment, his chest didn’t move at all.

With my lids gone heavy, I rubbed the ball of my foot along his length, thrilled when his cock pulsed in reaction. I grew wet in response, dampening the black silk thong I’d worn for him. My nipples budded in the demi cups of my bra.

When I stroked him from base to head, he cast me another look of warning—even as his gaze gleamed with lust. Now it was a battle of wills, a game of chicken.
Stroke.
He was refusing to react; I refused to quit.
Another stroke.
Who would blink first?

Wondering if I could get him off like this, I rubbed him with more pressure. The muscles in his shoulders and arms began to swell. The fighter must be clenching his fists beneath the table.

His eyes promised a hot and thorough punishment.

Mine must’ve been pleading for it.

If I retired to my room, would he follow? Apparently, I would be blinking first. I lowered my foot and slipped my shoe back on. As the sports car debate wound down, I feigned a yawn and rose. “I’m tired from the trip as well.” Avoiding Sevastyan’s face, I said, “Good night, everyone. It was great to meet you all.”

“But there are more bottles to finish,” Filip said with an irrepressible wink. Oh, dear, what if
he
tried to follow me?

To dissuade him, I said, “Stay and have fun—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He brightened. “Tomorrow afternoon, then. It’s a date.”

Date? That wasn’t what I’d meant, and I didn’t want to get his hopes up. But all eyes were on us, so I decided to let it go for now.

With a last wave at everyone, I made my way out of the dining room. I took my time strolling back to my suite, pausing to regard the collection of paintings in the upstairs hall, wishing Sevastyan would come to me.

And then he did. Striding down the hallway, looking every inch a
mafiya
enforcer. Expression murderous.

Which for him could be literal.

A
s Sevastyan prowled closer, I backed up a step, then another.

He grabbed my upper arm, dragging me down the hall. In a deceptively soft voice, he asked, “Did you enjoy playing with me?” He opened a side door, shoved me inside, then closed it behind us. I smelled fresh laundry and brass polish.

A maid’s closet?

And it was in a tsar’s residence? I could only imagine how many secret trysts had been carried out over the years within these four walls.

He flipped on a muted light, backing me farther inside. “You left me hard and aching, then planned a fucking assignation with Filip in front of me?” When my ass met a linen shelf, he clamped a hand on either side of my hips to cage me in, filling my head with his seductive scent. “Are we so interchangeable? Filip and I?”

“I don’t like him that way.”

“Do you not?” Sevastyan’s voice was laced with rage. “You looked like you did at the beginning of dinner. When he was about to kiss you.”

“What does it matter to you? You blew me off, remember?”

“It matters when you decide to stroke my cock under the table till I’m nearly strangling with need. It matters when you were drinking me down less than twenty-four hours ago.” Without warning, he shoved my dress up over my hips.

I sucked in a breath.

He stared at my thong, then the black thigh-highs, fingering the lacy tops. “Who did you wear these for?”

I raised my chin. “You.”

“So you planned for us to be together? After I’d said no? Tonight you’ve enjoyed playing with fire. But will you accept the burn you’ve earned?”

“Pardon—”

The word was cut off with a gasp when he lifted me up on the shelf. “I’m going to show you what I felt.” He wedged himself between my thighs.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer, just unzipped his slacks to drag the heavy length of his cock out. The crown was damp with arousal. My body went electric when his shaft strained toward my pussy, as if hunting it on its own.

I’d loved on his dick with my mouth and taken his semen on my tongue, wanted to again. “Let me kiss you like last night.” I tried to shimmy off the shelf, but he pinned me there, pressing that shaft directly against the silky front of my panties. Right against my swollen clitoris. I moaned when I perceived the heat of him, even through the damp material.

“Feel that,” he rasped. “Teasing me got you wet? You like goading me until I lose control?”

“Yes,” I whimpered.

He rubbed my upper thighs with his callused palms, higher and higher. With his thumbs, he reached under my panties and
pulled my lips past the sides of the crotch. “This is what I felt.” He thrust, as much as clothes-fucking me, with only silk between his cock and my clit.

I moaned low, my head falling back.

“No, you don’t,” he snapped, drawing my gaze. “You’re going to look at me like you did when you teased me, Natalya. Like you would die if I didn’t fuck you at that moment.” He gave a second thrust, making my body vibrate. “Your eyes were begging me to bend you over that table and plunge into your pussy.” Another thrust. “Is that what you meant to tell me?”