Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (37)

It hangs in tatters. My black lace bra is on full display, though he somehow managed to slice through the front clasp in the same motion, so it’s as useless as the shirt.

I stare down so long, a scream still trapped in my throat, that I actually think I’ve lost my voice. It takes a minute to find it again.

“What. The. Fuck!”

He just glances at me with his sure, confident gaze as he tucks the blade away. Then he pulls out a plastic-wrapped package from underneath his seat and hands it to me.

“You can either walk in there naked,” he says, “or wearing this. Your choice.”

I’m seething. So angry that it feels like I’m short-circuiting. “I can’t—you should’ve—you are fucking insane!” I stutter.

He gives me a dangerous smile, one that’s as much a warning as it is a seduction. “What’s it going to be, kiska?”

Keeping my eyes on him the entire time, I rip off what’s left of my t-shirt and bra. He may have won this one, but I don’t have to take it lying down like some beaten puppy. I unbutton my jeans, jerk my hips up, and shove them over my butt and down my legs.

His eyes linger on my black panties. On my bare breasts. I recognize that gleam in his gaze. Six years ago, it sealed my fate.

Things are different now, though. And if he thinks it will ever go back to the way they were, then he’s fucking delusional.

Sitting in his front seat in nothing but my underwear, I rip open the package he’s just handed me. I tear it open, strewing the shreds of crinkly plastic all around his precious convertible.

But when I get to what’s inside, I pause in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

He smiles. “I was told it’s couture.”

“‘Invisible’ would be a better word.”

I hold up the garment. It’s a silver scrap of fabric that would be insufficient for a bandana, much less a dress. Cutouts in the side, a deep scooping neckline, and an outrageously short hem mean that the choice between wearing this and going in naked isn’t much of a choice at all.

“We’re five minutes late for our reservation,” Isaak adds, “so you’d better hurry up.”

Gritting my teeth, I try and figure out how to put the damn dress on. There isn’t even a backseat available for me to spread out a little.

Suddenly, Isaak lurches towards me. I get a nose full of his scent—which, despite everything he’s done to infuriate me in the last few minutes, few days, few years, remains obnoxiously sexy.

“What are you doing?” I demand as he encroaches into my personal space.

He leans in a little further so that his face is practically pushed up against my breasts. Then he grabs a lever next to my seat and pulls.

Immediately, my seat jerks backwards, giving me a little more leg room.

“There,” Isaak says. “That should help.” He leans back in his seat, a smirk playing along his lips.

“I could have done that myself, if you just told me where the lever was.”

“You seemed a little flustered.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” I snap sarcastically.

“You’re holding the dress upside down,” he adds.

It takes me two more minutes to figure out how to put the dress on. And this time, he doesn’t seem at all interested in helping.

He just watches me struggle. His eyes never leave my body. And despite my anger and resentment, my body grows hot with arousal.

Which tells me one thing: from here on out, when it comes to Isaak Vorobev, I need to be careful.

Really fucking careful.





15





Isaak





I had purposefully chosen the slinkiest dress I could find. Because, despite what Cami seems to believe, I know her.

She relishes the fight. That’s why she brandished that devious little smile when she pranced down the stairs at the manor in street clothes.

And that’s why she was so disappointed when I played along. She expected sparks—and even though I knew what was happening next, I still felt that flash of anger at her defiance.

But this trick up my sleeve made it easy to fake my indifference.

Now, I’m reaping the rewards.

A front row view of her tight little body. I’m staring openly because I don’t give a fuck if she sees me, if it bothers her. She’s too goddamn delicious to look away from.

Those pert little nipples. The tiny patch of blond hair between her thighs. Even the tiny silvered stretch marks at the sides of her hips make my fucking mouth water.

Once she’s got the dress on, I get out of the convertible with the second package and walk around to her side. Tugging open her door, I get down on one knee.

She regards me suspiciously. “What are you—” Then I pull out the pair of silver heels that sets a nice contrast to her glittery little slip dress.

“Take those fucking monstrosities off,” I order, jerking my head to the pink slippers she wore out of the house.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue. She ditches them in the wheel well, then offers me her bare right foot.

I pluck the heel out of the box and slip it on her. My hands linger at her ankles as I set the clasp in place.

There’s a moment when I’m certain she trembles at my touch. But when I look at her, she pretends to be preoccupied with a flock of crows overhead.