Page 170 of The Pucking Arrangement

But instead, he steps closer. His gaze drops back to the cello, his fingers brushing the fingerboard.

“It sang for you,” he murmurs, his voice a caress. “Like it didn’t know how to do anything else.”

“Thanks,” I manage, my heart thrumming in my throat. My hands move on autopilot, reaching for my case, desperate for an escape.

Then suddenly, he leans in, helping me. His big hands are moving carefully, securing the latches, adjusting the endpin.

“What are you doing?” My voice wobbles, my pulse skittering.

He doesn’t answer. Just picks up my cello case. And then, with his free hand, he takes mine.

“Dmitri—” I protest, trying to pull back, trying to untangle myself.

But his fingers tighten, his grip possessive and final.

“Come,” he says.

The command leaves no room for argument. He tugs me forward, leading me through the thinning crowd. Past the press, the arena staff, the remnants of the celebration still echoing off the walls of Madison Square Garden.

I twist in his grasp. “Dmitri, I need to go home.”

“I know.” He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even look at me. “I’m taking you.”

“I can do it myself.”

His only response is a quiethmmthat’s neither agreement nor permission.

Outside, 34th Street is thick with post-game energy—horns blaring, fans celebrating on the Avenue. Dmitri raises a hand, and a yellow cab screeches to the curb. Before I can react, he opens the door, shoving my cello inside. Then, his hand is on my waist, guiding me in.

“Dmitri,seriously?—”

“Get in, Erin.”

The growl in his voice sends a bolt of heat through me. My skin tingles where his hand lingers, firm and unrelenting.

I swallow hard and slide inside.

He follows, shutting the door with a decisive thud. “Twelfth and Sixth,” he tells the driver, his voice rough.

My stomach flips.My apartment.

I whip toward him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you home.”

“I can?—”

“I know.” His hand slides up my thigh, fingers trailing beneath my dress, possessive and sure. “But we’re going together.”

My breath catches, pulse hammering. “I’m so confused, Dmitri. What’s this now?”

He doesn’t answer but his touch tightens. “Are you wearing this dress for me?”

I don’t answer. Ican’t.

His fingers trace lazy circles against my skin. “Like you promised me you would?”

Heat floods through me. I squeeze my thighs together, but his hand is already there, parting them again. “Yes,” I whisper.

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