Page 115 of The Pucking Arrangement

Luka, looking at me like we were creating something bigger than us both.

Dmitri had watched that.

And from the way his jaw flexes, from the way his shoulders hold an almost imperceptible tension, I know exactly how he felt about it.

I swallow hard. “And what did you think?”

His gaze locks onto mine.

“I think,” his voice is slow velvet dragging over my skin, “you looked fucking incredible.”

It should be a compliment. It is a compliment.

But there’s something sharp and simmering beneath it.

Something that tells me he didn’t just watch the video.

He felt it.

And it wrecked him.

I exhale shakily, but before I can form a response, he’s closing the distance and sitting on the bed.

“Two million views,” he murmurs, his hand trailing up my thigh, fingers pressing just enough to make my breath hitch. “My cellist’s gone viral.” His lips brush my ear, his voice a dark promise.

My cellist.

The words hit like a brand, sending heat pooling between my thighs.

“The blue dress you gave me photographed beautifully in that light. It hit just the right tone,” I manage to croak, my heart thundering in my chest. “Thank you again for the gifts.”

His gaze flicks to where that same dress is hanging on the closet door.

Then back to me.

“You will wear the dress for me soon, yes?” His voice is thick, low. “I want to take it off you.”

My cheeks flame.

“Does the beard mean you won?” I’m desperate to distract him before I spontaneously combust.

“Overtime win.” His grin is pure satisfaction. “I see someone didn’t make it past second period. Missed quite a show.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, heat crawling up my neck. “I tried, but?—”

“Difficulties sleeping without me?”

The way he’s looking at me—dark eyes locked on mine, heavy with intent—makes my pulse skitter.

The arrogance drips from every syllable, and I should be annoyed. But instead, my thighs press together, my breath stutters, my skin is on fire.

As if he hasn’t ruined me for sleeping alone.

As if I haven’t spent the last five nights tossing in a bed that feels too big, too empty, too wrong without him.

As if I don’t already know this isn’t just a fling.

That was never the intent.

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